


Night-Time Symmetry

by Elfgrandfather



Category: Cordelia (2020), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Class Differences, Collars, Crossdressing, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Face-Fucking, Femdom, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Foot Fetish, Frottage, Gender Roles, Humiliation, Internalized Homophobia, Kink Discovery, Kink Exploration, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Master/Pet, Objectification, Open Marriage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Period-Typical Sexism, Puppy Play, Regency, Season's Treatings, Snowed In, Temperature Play, Tide of History Challenge, Yulebuilding, Yuleporn, Yuletide, Yuletide 2020, technically cousin incest, watersports in passing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:15:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27677944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather
Summary: When Frank is snowed in with a relative's pugnacious new wife over the last days of December, he confronts things about himself he's long tried to suppress.
Relationships: Cordelia/Frank (Cordelia), Frank/OMC
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Night-Time Symmetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabulous_but_evil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabulous_but_evil/gifts).



> Hi fabulous_but_evil, happy Yuletide!
> 
> As you can see, I really indulged on the length with this one, but the extremely flimsy canon was just such a good opportunity for worldbuilding, and to shove as many of your likes into one story as I possibly could. I tried to make it fun to read regardless of the sex, but there is, of course, a lot of sex. Apart from what's in the tags, a few other kinks/acts are mentioned in passing, but it felt a bit pointless to tag them since they're not really lingered upon enough to be interesting to people looking for them or, I hope, bothersome for those who want to avoid them. If you're okay with what's in the tags, you'll be fine with what's lightly alluded to. 
> 
> To expand on the weirder tags: someone is made to pee as part of humiliation, but it's not focused on so much from a watersports angle. There is sexual contact between distantly related people, in a way common for the time and class in question, and which imo barely qualifies as incest. Still, if this bothers you, approach the final parts of the story with caution.
> 
> I tried to go for a vaguely Georgian tone in the writing itself, but I do use more modern phrasing when not doing so felt clunky. Oh, I also realise it's very long, so don't worry about being slow to comment or anything! It's a busy time of year!

Cecily’s windows rattled in their frames.

It was as though God Himself wanted to blow the house down, and Frank wished He would. If the place were to collapse, he’d be freed from the Hell of free will. He simply would not be able to knock on her door, and his lifeless body could settle under a duvet of snow and debris for some much needed respite.

His fingertips tingled. The minute puncture wound on the underside of his chin throbbed, a pressure valve for the ghoulish thoughts boiling his brain.

Gingerly, he sat up in his bed, stared at the door to the corridor. Was she doing the same, in her rooms? Perhaps she’d fallen asleep. He shivered, and rubbed his arms through the thick linen of his nightshirt. The cold made his nipples poke out, and Frank tried his best to ignore the tingle that went through him every time he grazed his chest.

It would be foolish to wake her.

And yet, if he did not, he would regret it for the rest of his life.

It all began a week before Christmas.

The festive season had been rather understated since the spirit of boyhood left the home. An only child, Frank finished school a decade prior, and the hullaballoo around his and his friends’ return from Eton was but a distant memory. This year, however, marked a difference: Ambrose’s newlywed wife would join them. Lord and Lady Dunsmore were delighted.

Frank was not.

By all accounts, she was a bright girl, with a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, and that’s precisely what he did not appreciate. Bad enough Ambrose, the bootneck fool, had married before him; he’d fallen for some silly girl with ideas far above her station. Some scheming bluestocking who’d heard the single brain cell rattling around his thick skull and realised she’d struck gold.

When the convoy arrived at Cecily, Frank perched high up on the stairs to watch Ambrose and his entourage bustle into the entrance hall, shaking hands and filling the place with his booming laugh. They were related, in some esoteric way. A grandfather's brother's second wife's someone or other's descendant, who Lady Dunsmore had taken under her wing. For simplicity’s sake, Frank tended to think of him as his cousin, though he was more like an albatross tied firmly around Frank’s neck – through every summer, every winter, every school year. The Royal Navy hadn’t beaten any semblance of sense into him. On the contrary, Captain Ambrose FitzRoy seemed more raucous than ever, and he’d picked up a repulsive smoking habit, too. His cloak was barely off his shoulders, and he was already stuffing his pipe with a wad of tobacco, searching the room for more relations to pester.

‘Frankie!’ he shouted, waving his John Bull hat. ‘You look like an owl up there! Come meet Cordelia!’

On cue, she sailed through the open front doors, trailed by servants carrying the couple’s luggage. Frank pulled himself up by the bannister and trudged down. His parents were entertaining Ambrose’s friends, fellow officers with no women of their own, taking them away from the frosty outside air for a stiff drink and a roaring hearth.

‘Lovely to see you, old man!’ Ambrose said, warmly slapping a broad hand on Frank’s back. ‘Damn near couldn’t make it this year, but I reckon Admiral Martin’s soft for me. Delia!’

Lowering the hood of her fur capelet, Cordelia turned from the maid to face the men.

She was certainly beautiful. Frank could admit that much. Fine features, with porcelain skin and eyes the shape and colour of almonds. Her lips shone even in the relative gloom of the candlelit hall, and her blonde chignon appeared unaffected by the long coach ride or her cowl. Despite her elegance, she was far from dainty, standing about as tall as Frank and with the impeccable posture one might expect from her martial husband.

 _Well_ , thought Frank, _of course she’s pleasant to behold. He wouldn’t pick a girl for what’s_ inside _her head, would he._

He gave a cursory bow, almost bashing his forehead directly into her extended hand. Brow raised, he glanced up at her, and saw her face illuminated by a wide smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Those almond eyes took on a tint of danger, of daring. Frank awkwardly straightened his spine and slotted his hand into hers. Instead of the limp affair he was accustomed to from the rare occasions he’d shaken a lady’s hand, Cordelia’s grip was firm, and she never looked away from his face.

‘This is Frank. I’ve told you all about him,’ said Ambrose, still holding on to his cousin’s shoulder.

‘You have,’ she replied. Her teeth were like sharpened pearls. ‘We missed you at the wedding, dear Frank.’

‘Yes, I was on the continent. Italy.’ If she wanted him contrite, she would be disappointed. And had she really gone straight to using his Christian name? ‘Your love was so blessed I simply did not have the time to return before you tied the knot.’

‘I see. Were I to have been in Italy, I would not have returned to attend my own wedding.’ She shifted her gaze to her husband. ‘You’d understand, would you not?’

‘As if I had a choice!’ he laughed.

Cordelia’s grasp tightened on his fingers, and Frank thought that underneath her layers, she must be Amazonian at her very core.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she murmured. ‘I am sure we will become well acquainted.’

With that, she released him, took Ambrose’s arm, and accompanied him further into the house. Frank watched her swaying skirts until she disappeared around a corner, and looked at his hand. The lingering softness of her skin was like a film he wished he could peel off. But he could not.

For a few days afterwards, things proceeded quite normally. Although Ambrose and Cordelia were given the room closest to Frank’s, their schedules barely overlapped. The couple socialised with Frank’s parents and their own friends, while Frank kept to his quarters to read poetry, or took the dogs on long walks through the frigid fields around the estate. At dinner, he’s observe his cousin’s wife for further signs of the _foreboding_ he’d seen in her eyes, but she kept to perfectly reasonable conversation, avoiding even the notions of pacifism and female supremacy he had expected of her.

He was relieved. And he’d never admit – not even to himself – that this relief was by far dwarfed by disappointment.

That is, until Christmas morning.

Frank woke uncharacteristically early to a room much brighter than usual, and his inner child gave his heart a mighty kick when he realised the source of the light lay in the growing blanket of fresh snow outside. Many a winter day had been spent gliding down white hills when he was a boy, on improvised sleds of silver trays swiped from the kitchens at school, and on finely crafted sleds once term was out. Flakes drifted peacefully from an ashen sky. He was too old now for such youthful delights, but the weather was perfect for a horse ride through the moors.

The servants were the only lucid souls drifting through the manor, and even they were still indulging in pre-morning sluggishness, before their masters needed attention. Frank knocked back a cup of tea, a few boiled eggs, and left the house with a small basket of apples – one for himself, the rest for the horses. He hummed a tune under his breath, some surprisingly good wassail from the last Twelfth Night.

The song died on his tongue when he pushed open the door to the stables and saw none other than Cordelia, brushing the mane of Frank’s dark favourite, Bucephalus.

‘What are you doing here?’ he blurted out.

She did not seem surprised to see him, and the comb untangling Bucephalus’ locks didn’t pause even for a second.

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ said Cordelia.

‘I’ll thank you not to speak to me in that tone.’

‘I’ll return the respect I am given. Whose animal is this? He’s quite lovely.’

Frank huffed a cloud into the cold air and reluctantly approached her. ‘He’s mine. If you were hoping to ride, you’re out of luck. Mother wants nothing to do with the horses, and we have no sidesaddles.’

‘That’s quite alright. I fairly despise sidesaddles. Father taught me to ride astride.’

Frank scoffed. ‘Perhaps Ambrose allows for that absurd behaviour, but whilst you’re at Cecily, you shall do no such thing.’

‘Why not?’

He blinked, rattled the apples in the basket. ‘Well, er… it’s not appropriate. Sidesaddle protects a woman’s virtue.’

‘You do know I’m married?’

One might expect steam to come off Frank in sheets, given how red he was becoming. ‘Lady FitzRoy! That’s quite enough. A woman of decorum would never –‘

‘You must introduce me to this woman. Perhaps I could help her have some fun.’

Before he could react, she popped her hand into the basket and picked up a shiny red apple, which she promptly bit into with the gusto of one whose fast had yet to be broken. Frank helplessly watched those sharp teeth dig into the fruit, the tiny wisps of vapour she exhaled, those pretty pink fingernails on creamy skin.

Seeing him stare, she extended the apple toward him. Her perfect teeth marks looked calculated, drawn by an artist. Frank hesitated – and just as his hand twitched, she moved the fruit to Bucephalus’ nose. His nostrils shook with a mighty snort, and he delicately plucked it off Cordelia’s hand for an early snack.

‘If you don’t break a horse,’ she said, caressing Bucephalus’s forehead, ‘it will never be tame. You know that, don’t you?’

The stables were quiet, filled only with the natural sounds of such an environment, hooves on straw and tails swishing and idle mouth sounds.

‘Who are you?’ said Frank.

‘I’m Cordelia. Who are _you_?’

‘I’m my father’s son. And I simply wanted to ride on a Christmas morning.’

‘Nobody is stopping you.’

She indicated the adjoining boxes, where more horses peacefully chewed their hay.

‘I want Bucephalus.’

‘I see. So do I.’

They regarded each other. Like lightning, Frank’s shot out to grab Cordelia’s arm, to move her away from _his_ companion – but faster still, she snatched something from the floor and brought her fist down in a flash. Frank gasped, recoiled.

A red welt spanned the back of his hand.

The object Cordelia held was a black leather horsewhip, which tended to go unused and was just as cruelly sharp as it had been when it was first acquired. Frank stared with the wide eyes of a trapped animal, and realised he’d dropped the basket on the ground. He touched the welt and winced, flickering from it to Cordelia’s serious expression.

‘I – I – you – ! How dare you –‘

‘I know _exactly_ who you are, Francis Dunsmore,’ she said, firm. ‘What you think of women like me, and why. You want to be proven wrong.’

‘You know nothing about –‘

‘Then open your coat.’

He reacted as if slapped, instantly closing his arms around himself. ‘What?’

‘I’ll accept I’m wrong if you’ll open your coat. A simple trade, is it not?’ She hooked a finger under the strap of the horse’s bridle to shift his face towards his master. ‘I shall relinquish him without another word.’

Seconds ticked by. Frank’s fingers tensed on the fabric of his coat. He breathed in.

And darted out of the building.

He could not bare himself, in fact, for a damnably simple reason, and that reason strained against the front flap of his breeches.

Cordelia didn’t call after him. At lunch, she returned none of his glares. Were it not for his sore hand, he might believe he’d made the incident up. Women did not act this way. Not even men acted this way.

In the evening, when he chanced to venture into the drawing room for a few hours amongst family – and _not_ because he desired a glimpse of the foul creature who’d had such a mystifying effect on his anatomy – Frank tensed as she raised a hand during a lull in the conversation.

‘Shall we have games?’ she asked.

‘Oh! What fun!’ exclaimed one of Ambrose’s friends.

‘But what could we play?’ said Lady Dunsmore. ‘Steal the white loaf? Bullet pudding?’

‘Snapdragon,’ said Cordelia.

Ambrose burst out laughing. ‘Cordelia is devoted to snapdragon. She cannot be conquered.’

‘Sounds like a challenge!’

Their chum’s call was answered with a buzz of agreement, and Lord Dunsmore hurried to instruct the servants to make the necessary preparations. As the room bustled and rearranged, Frank did his best to slink away unnoticed, only to hear his name howled out by Ambrose:

‘Frank! You’re not going yellow, are you? Come defend your title!’

What choice did that leave him?

Soon, they were gathered around a table, where a few dozen raisins and dried plums lay in a large shallow dish, soaking in aged brandy the colour of polished brass. Lord Dunsmore struck a phosphorus match – an exciting novelty he’d procured on his last trip to London – and put it to the liquor, instantly lighting a wild blaze that traded the overpowering scent of alcohol for the feral smell of fire. On the faces illuminated by blue flames, Frank saw nerves begin to set in.

‘If we must call for Dr Hastings on Christmas Day, I shall die of shame!’ cried his mother, making sure to choose a seat that allowed her a good view of the proceedings.

Ambrose began the game by grabbing a raisin on the edge of the plate, and popping it into his mouth. Realising that the longer they waited, the harder it would be to pick easiest fruit, everyone followed suit, and it wasn’t long before competitors started to drop off. General chatter set in again, as the crowd watched the remaining players – Frank, Ambrose, and Cordelia – snag the burning treats.

‘Lord Dunsmore, may I enquire about the origin of the house’s name?’ said one of the military men.

‘Yes, I would like to know, too,’ Cordelia added. ‘Why Cecily?’

‘Ah, it’s rather a romantic tale.’ Frank’s father paused to sip from a glass of fragrant Port. ‘It bore another name when father inherited the place. The Pears, I believe, after our trees. When his parents passed on, he was in the throes of courtship with the lady who would become my mother. He baptized the home after her on the occasion of her first visit, because, he said, as their love was a wellspring of respite in the lawless game of life, so the estate ought to be a lifelong oasis.’

‘How could any woman resist?’ Ambrose chuckled – though his laughter was cut through by a sharp hiss and an aggressive shake of the hand: distracted by the story, he’d let his fingers linger too long in the flames.

‘Poor thing!’ said Lady Dunsmore, gesturing for a servant to bring a soothing balm.

‘I’ve been more badly hurt by the barrel of a hot rifle!’ he exclaimed. When Cordelia touched his elbow, however, he relented. ‘Oh, it’s unfair to continue when all the others stopped, isn’t it?’

‘Just so, my dear.’ She was seated directly opposite Frank, and when she met his gaze over the azure inferno, he felt as though the fire had spread to his belly. ‘Now, let us see who has the most dexterous fingers.’

Frank inspected the dish. Ten fruits remained, five each. He’d been Cecily’s reigning snapdragon champion since childhood, and he wasn’t about to forfeit to some insolent girl. He cracked his fingers, ignoring his mother’s wince at the sound, and easily plucked a plum from amidst the flames.

They continued evenly matched, chewing on the searing rewards of their swift touch, until only two raisins were left. It would be a stalemate, but at least it wouldn’t be a loss. Or it wouldn’t have been, had Frank not made the tactical error of defiantly meeting Cordelia’s eyes just as he thrust his hand into the brandy.

In the glow of the plate, her face was as blinding as the snow outside, pupils like dark crystal balls full of promises and mystery, of impossible knowledge and the conviction to act on it. Lips erotic in their very existence parted, spoke without a sound,

_I know you._

The welt on the back of Frank’s hand throbbed, and, just as it had that morning, so did his cock.

The cold heat around his fingers turned to a boil, and he snatched his hand back before his sleeve could catch fire. Reflexively, he thrust it between his thighs to quell the pain, succeeding only in stimulating his growing bulge – _entirely_ on accident.

Ambrose chortled in his usual booming raucous way.

‘Greed got the best of you, eh, Frankie? Went for a show when you should’ve been humble. Delia can’t be beaten!’

Plunging his scorched fingers into the fresh bucket of snow they’d had brought in for just this eventuality, Frank glowered at Ambrose’s easy touch of the bare skin of his wife’s neck, the evident attraction Cordelia captured from all who beheld her. She effortlessly swiped the last two raisins and popped them in her mouth.

Damn her.

_Damn her._

Those words rang through his head throughout the night like incessant church bells, into dawn. When Sutton knocked to rouse him, he’d barely slept at all, and waved her off with an angry flick of his bandaged hand.

‘Master Francis, I must insist,’ she said. A newer girl might have relented straight away, but Sutton had been with the family since Frank was in short trousers, and she’d never been much intimidated by his temperamental outbursts. ‘An invitation arrived this morning from Lady Beaufort for a show at their town house. The coaches are being prepared.’

‘I shan’t go,’ he muttered into his pillow.

‘Now now,’ she sighed, ‘don’t be difficult, sir. It’s Boxing Day. His Lordship your father’s kindly offered to take the serving staff into town. You won’t have anyone to attend to you.’

Frank groaned, sat up, ran his fingers through his short, messy curls. ‘You have rather a low opinion of me if you think I shall perish after a mere day alone, Sutton. What _day –_ ten hours, at most.’

‘Well, who’s to make your tea? Your supper?’

‘We have enough of last night’s meal left over to feed the all the King’s men. I will endure, I assure you.’

‘Why not fire the lot of us, then?’ the old woman grumbled, retreating out of Frank’s room and shutting the door with slam, practiced over decades to be loud enough to annoy, subtle enough to appear accidental.

He thought she might return with a younger girl in tow, perhaps even Mother if things were truly dire, but the door remained firmly shut. Ensconced in his down feather duvet, Frank faintly heard the baritones of Ambrose and his chums, the whinny of the horses – Bucephalus among them, most likely, in order to accommodate such a large party in such snowy conditions – and he felt a brief spike of regret. Would he really let that damn woman stop him enjoying the festive season?

He considered jumping out of bed, throwing on an appropriate outfit, and dashing downstairs – but discarded the idea just as quickly. In his haste to blame everything on Cordelia, he’d neglected something crucial: he did not, in fact, have any desire whatever to travel into town, or hand out alms to the poor, or take in whatever idiotic ‘comedy’ Lady Beaufort had roped her long-suffering children into _this_ year. The prospect of avoiding Ambrose’s fiendish female was merely an added benefit.

So, with a true smile for the first time in quite a while, Frank burrowed into his bed and thrilled at the thought of a day by himself.

This jolly mood persisted until he climbed down the stairs in just his stockings, breeches, shirt and dressing gown, strode into the drawing room for a handful of nuts and dried fruit, and found Cordelia lounging on a sofa, peeling an apple with a sharp paring knife.

‘Good grief!’ Frank spat, pulling his dressing gown tightly around his person. ‘I thought I heard you leave!'

‘You heard the others leave.’ She took a small bite of an apple slice, chewed it slowly. ‘I said I’d rather stay.’

‘B-but I – father knew I’d be staying, and there’s nobody else here! How could they let a man and woman alone together –‘

‘Ambrose gave his blessing. He trusts us.’ Her pink cat’s tongue licked the juice from the side of the blade, and Frank had to avert his eyes. ‘Should he not?’

‘Of course he should,’ Frank said, quickly. ‘I resent your implication.’

‘Implication?’

‘That I would ever be a danger to your propriety.’

‘My dear Francis,’ Cordelia’s feline quality extended to her mouth now, curled with cat-like satisfaction, ‘whoever said anything about _you_ being a danger to _me_?’

Frank’s blood froze, shattered, tiny pieces of ice shuttling painfully through his veins, irritating him into true fury. He marched up to Cordelia and gripped her thin wrists, pinning them against the thick upholstery of the sofa. She didn’t try to pull away, didn’t make a sound or even flinch. Just fixed him with those impossible eyes.

‘I am _tired_ of your comments,’ Frank growled. ‘I don’t know what you believe you’re accomplishing by constantly antagonizing me, or what you think you understand about me, but you will _stop_. I have never raised my hand on a woman, but if Ambrose won’t discipline his wife, someone must.’

With a final warning squeeze, Frank let go and turned to leave, buoyed with pride at his own impulsive words. He would have made a dignified exit, had Cordelia not hopped over the back of the sofa, closed the gap between in a second, and slammed him front-first into the floral wallpaper.

‘Fuck!’ he yelped, too shocked to mind his tongue. She was more powerful than she appeared, keeping him against the wall with ease, and he could only twist his face to the side to shout: ‘Cordelia! What in Christ’s name –‘

The tip of a knife pressing up against his chin silenced him at once. She’d pierced the very top layer of his skin. Not enough to bleed, enough to be felt. The metal still smelled of apples, and noticing this detail made him notice more. Cordelia’s natural scent, the rough texture of his stubble on the wallpaper, her breasts crushed against his back, her grip on his arm.

When she spoke, her lips grazed the back of his neck, and all the hair on his body stood on end.

‘You can beat me, if you’d like. You can take this blade and pierce my heart. It won’t kill your desires.’

She kicked his feet further apart with the side of shoes, pressed her hips against his arse, nudged her thigh between his – and when she pressed a hot kiss to his nape, the dams he’d desperately tried maintain cracked and he _moaned_.

Just like that, the soft heat against his back was gone.

For a moment, he didn’t move, uncertain if this was a trap. The knife clatter on the floor, and he meekly turned around. Cordelia leaned against the back of the sofa, eyeing Frank up like a lion scrutinizing a delectable cut of beef.

‘It’s simple,’ she said. ‘You have a choice. Come to my room tonight, and I shall introduce you to pleasures you’ve barely dared to dream of.’ Her hair, tied back in the sort of careless bun Frank had only glimpsed on his mother’s sickbed, bobbed to the side as she tilted her head, not quite smiling. ‘Don’t, and I will accept that you have declined my invitation. We shall abandon the subject.’

If he were to voice all his thoughts at once, it would sound like a choir. A bead of sweat trickled down his back, though the house was as cold as the season wanted it to be.

‘Are you proposing we betray your husband?’ Frank finally said.

‘You’re concerned about Ambrose’s feelings? I thought you fairly despised him. That _is_ what you want us mortal onlookers to believe, isn’t it?’

‘My morality does not depend on my personal affections.’

‘Well then, you’ll be pleased to know you have no source of conflict at all.’

Frank frowned, trying to understand.

‘You’re saying that he – _knows_? But – but how? Surely, for all your secrecy, you are not psychic.’ In truth, with the way she was behaving, if Cordelia were to tell him she and Ambrose _did_ share a mystical connection, Frank would be inclined to believe it. ‘How could he give you his blessing from the Beauforts’ town house?’

‘You think we didn’t speak of this eventuality before we ever set foot in Cecily?’

Colour rose to Frank’s cheeks, blotching his neck, his ears, perhaps even his hands. How could they have discussed a perversion such as this? Even speaking the words, making Cordelia’s proposal explicit, seemed physically impossible.

‘Not that he needed to give me much information. I saw right through you the moment I took your hand. Still, Ambrose told me a number of things, and listened to my ideas – with gusto.’

‘Why would a man consent to – cuckolding himself?!’

He said this quickly, as though speed might mitigate the shame dripping off his tongue. The amusement on Cordelia’s face only became more apparent.

‘My darling boy, who spoke of cuckoldry?’

‘But you said –!’

‘What _did_ I say?’

He stayed silent.

‘I said I would introduce you to sublime pleasure. That is all.’

Frank seized on that: ‘Yes, if I come to your rooms. Everyone else will return at nightfall. Ambrose will be there, with you, and anyone could see me journey to your door –‘

Cordelia brushed past him towards the library, evidently bored of the conversation. Though Frank knew better than to touch her now, he dogged her steps.

‘Lady FitzRoy! Wait!’

She paused, glanced over her shoulder with a coy smile. ‘Perhaps someone could see you, but I strongly suspect nobody will.’

And she shimmered away.

Frank wasn’t sure what she meant until the day wore on and clouds gathered above, knit themselves together into a heavy grey blanket, and shed their snowy lint. It was whimsical, at first, much like it had been the preceding morning, but every time Frank chanced a look outside, he saw the flakes double in number and intensity. The wind rose. By early evening, he knew his family and acquaintances would not, in fact, be returning that day, and when he lay in bed, reading by candlelight, he hoped none of the windows or outdoor structures would be destroyed.

He’d never seen weather like this, not in thirty years of life.

If he didn’t consider himself a rationalist, he might be tempted to think Cordelia a witch.

Hours after he blew out his candle, he stayed awake, listening to Boreas scream against the house. The tips of his fingers tingled. The minute puncture wound underneath his chin throbbed.

The two of them, alone, in the heart of Cecily.

He’d had women before. He learned the stunning warmth of a woman at seventeen, when the Beauforts’ daughter slipped his fingers in her cunt, as they hid in the servants’ quarters to escape festive familial duties. He’d walked the streets of Soho with old school friends, choosing working girls like cuts at a butcher’s.

This felt different.

Cordelia’s strength, Cordelia’s rage, Cordelia’s affinity for causing him pain – it tapped into a vein Frank had long tried to clamp off. The same vein that ran hot when he was caned at school, when he knelt by the older boy he was set to serve and waited for instruction, when Ambrose was a little too rough with his play.

It was so late. It would be foolish to wake her.

And yet, he found himself standing in front of her door, in a loose poet’s shirt and ribbed velvet breeches, bare feet on the cold oak floorboards. His heart was in his throat. After what felt like an age, he tentatively reached out and rapped his knuckles on the door.

‘Come in,’ came at once from the other side.

She was a vision.

The fire burning in the hearth cast a snug glow on the room. Cordelia sat in the far corner, on a red settee, with three candles strategically placed behind her to illuminate the text she held in her hands – something Greek, it seemed. Her nightdress was made of a semi-sheer material, clinging to every swell and divot of her body. With her pallid complexion, she could have been a sculpture from the nation whose words she beheld, and behold them she did: even as Frank approached her, she never lifted her eyes from the book.

When he was four or five paces away, she spoke:

‘You are late.’

He stopped, waiting for more. She turned a page.

‘Go to the dressing table. Pack me a pipe.’

Though confused, Frank did as he was told, wondering all the while what this could possibly have to do with the tantalising words from that morning. When he was walking back, Cordelia raised a finger, and he came to a halt.

‘On your knees.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Did I hesitate?’

With a sigh, Frank lowered himself onto his knees, and crept the final distance to her that way, wincing when he left the carpet and his sensitive kneecaps hit the hard floor, again and again. Once he was close enough, Cordelia handed him her book, saying,

‘Keep the page.’

and set about lighting up with the matchbook she’d taken from the drawing room. Her exquisite lips closed around the mouthpiece, sucked and puffed, sending the flame dancing. Once she had it going, she picked the book back up and gestured with the stem of the pipe.

‘All fours.’

Before he could properly process the thought, Frank was already on his hands and knees, parallel to the chair, and felt the weight of Cordelia’s feet on his back.

‘Spine straight,’ she said, and he obeyed.

‘How long do I –‘

‘Have you ever known a footstool to have a voice?’

He went silent, and waited, hearing only the crackle and pop from the hearth, the occasional flap of a page. At first, he felt rising irritation – what sort of ˮsublime pleasureˮ was _this_? It was all a farce, a situation contrived to make him look a total ass, and he’d been stupid enough to fall for a siren call. Yet, gazing at the fire, feeling the steady pressure and warmth of Cordelia’s feet, he struggled to hold on to this anger. Instead, the constant malaise that had taken root in his mind when he was a boy was replaced with contentment. A trance, a thrall, an undeniable, pervasive tranquillity.

Cordelia’s fist closing in his hair was a rude awakening.

Frank cried out, mostly out of shock, and he was forced to notice that the walk from that strange, peaceful place in his mind to arousal was shorter and more enchanting through pain than any previous attempts at eroticism.

‘You weren’t _listening_ ;’ said Cordelia, tugging Frank’s hair for emphasis. ‘A footstool is mindless, but a slave should be attentive to its master’s wishes. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ he whimpered, flooded with a mixture of relief, lust, grief, when she released her grip and shoved him aside.

‘As I was _saying_. I’m cold, and I’ve concluding tonight’s reading. Dispose of this.’

She nudged his hand with her foot, prompting him to raise it, and tapped the spent tobacco out onto his palm. It was barely lukewarm. Frank realised just how long he must have been frozen in that servile position, and a quick glance at the pendulum clock across the room confirmed an hour had passed. It was frightening, just how easily he’d slipped into that space beyond time, how perfect it felt – he hadn’t enjoyed merely _existing_ that much since his fagging days. Troubled, he went to the hearth, knelt down, and tossed the burned leaves into the fire.

When he made to stand back up, Cordelia tutted.

‘I am _cold_. Lie down, on your back, knees bent.’

Sensing a moment of hesitation, she placed her sole squarely on his solar plexus and pushed him to the ground. Frank watched her step over his torso, facing him, and sit down on his lap, using his raised thighs to rest her back.

She was heavier than she seemed, no doubt thanks to the lean muscle usually hidden by the modest attire of the feminine sex. The negligée exposed her arms, allowing Frank to verify that, indeed, they swelled around the bicep more like his own than he’d seen on the lanky whores he seldom visited. This did nothing to diminish her beauty. In fact, that strength, combined with the serenity on her diaphanous features as she soaked up the kindly heat of the fire, served only to elevate her to an ethereal fairness that sparked fear in his heart.

Cordelia was Ambrose’s wife. He had no business feeling like this.

He had no business being in this position at all!

Noting his persistent gaze, she shifted her attention to him, and smirked.

‘I told you I preferred to ride astride,’ she said, grinding her cushioned arse into his lap for emphasis.

Frank let out a tight-lipped moan, had to consciously resist the urge to put his hands on her, encourage further motion – he was wise enough to the game to realise this would be very much against the spirit of things. Instead, as his cock continued to stiffen underneath her, Cordelia placed her left foot on his collarbone.

‘Cecily is a frigid mistress. I fear I may lose parts of myself to frostbite.’

And she touched the back of her toes against Frank’s neck to prove that they were, in fact, quite chilly. She must have used an oil of some kind, as he noted a scent of lavender he’d thus far failed to detect – and given how heightened his senses had become, this was quite a feat. Without a word, he reached up and closed his fingers around the top of her foot, placing both thumbs under the delicate arch, and rubbed to warm her up.

His diligent massage would focus on each toe, run the length of the foot, and make its way slightly above the ankle before going back down, occasionally pausing while she switched feet. He’d never touched anyone this way, never felt that terribly soft skin on the bottom of the feet – spared the callouses of labour and adversity, this most secret part of Cordelia’s body was singularly vulnerable, and _he_ was being given access to it. From his low vantage point, he could see the creamy expanse of leg very nearly to the top of her thigh, but this titillation paled in comparison to the thrill of his current position.

‘In London, Ambrose’s friends are forever making the most absurd remarks. ˮGood on you for shoeing the wild mare,ˮ they’ll say, thinking I shall find it charming. They may believe what they wish, but do you feel a single scrap of metal on my hooves?’

A little dazed, Frank shook his head. He couldn’t imagine _anyone_ taming Cordelia.

_Cordelia._

His hands paused their ministrations, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he brought her toes to his face and lavished kisses on them – close-mouthed, chaste pecks, worthy of being gifted to the feet of Jesus Christ, quickly growing in fervour as his prick responded, throbbed hard and desperate between the mounds of Cordelia’s shapely backside. He pushed her toes past his lips, licking their soft undersides, sucking each individual one until she moved her foot away.

‘That’s quite enough,’ she murmured, and Frank hoped he heard a note of dreamy satisfaction in her voice. ‘I told you to warm my feet. The cold will only bite harder if you leave them wet.’

‘Forgive me,’ Frank said straight away. ‘I can’t – I haven’t been able to… _think_ , since you let me in.’

‘There is no need to waste energy on thoughts. You are not made for such things.’

Frank shuddered, tried his best to hold back a thrust, didn’t quite manage. Cordelia raised an eyebrow, quirking her lip, and stood – only to elicit a needy whine when she stepped on the hillock in his lap. Not hard, but not soft, either, just enough pressure to make him swim between pain and pleasure, grinding her heel up and down his rigid cock.

‘You are being far too lively for a good piece of furniture,’ she commented, with a particularly well-placed twist of the ankle that left him writhing. ‘But it is only your first night. I expect better tomorrow.’

She took her foot off his groin, and walked toward her bed.

Frank didn’t move immediately, too dizzy and enmeshed in that mental garden of earthly delights, but when it became apparent Cordelia considered their appointment concluded, he scrambled up to his elbows. Cordelia was pulling back the many layers covering her bed, and Frank skittered over on hands and knees, reaching for the blankets.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she said, more as a statement than a question.

‘Well – surely we can’t be done,’ Frank stammered.

‘Whyever not?’

‘Because I’m – we haven’t –‘

‘Because you haven’t come?’

With how red his face was already, at least she wouldn’t see him blush at the frankness of her words. He nodded. Cordelia was halfway through plaiting her hair, and didn’t seem at all interested in Frank or his straining erection. ‘If you believe that your ejaculation is of any importance in these meetings of ours, perhaps you need more time to reflect before we meet next.’

‘No!’ he spat. ‘F-forgive me.’

Hair taken care of, she slid into bed, and granted him a patient smile. ‘You have potential. You’ve earned your way out of being an object tomorrow. I know you can be a good boy. You came when called, after all.’

The praise lit a hot glow in Frank’s heart. He smiled wide, unmoored, and sat up on his heels.

‘Thank you. You’re tired, I understand – it’s late. When shall we –‘

‘Tomorrow, at dusk. If you arrive earlier than you did today, we may have time for more activities.’

‘I will. I will come earlier. I –‘ he made to stand, but it was as though his body refused. Not unless he made certain. ‘May I stand?’

‘Very good! You may. Please shut the door behind you.’

Frank murmured his gratitude as he retreated, never turning his back on the goddess under the linen, and only began to feel a creeping sense of unease when he was back in his own room.

What in God’s name had got into him?

The loss of free will was almost instant. When he crossed the threshold of Cordelia’s room and heard her voice, all reason and pride evaporated. He’d become a beast, an idiot, and he could have continued in that state for – hours, days, perhaps even the rest of his life. No ennui, no bitterness. Only a full heart, a stiff prick, and a desire to serve.

He stubbornly ignored his erection as he changed into his nightclothes, waiting for it to soften through neglect. Cordelia being a witch seemed increasingly realistic, no matter how absurd the concept of magic was to a thinking man. If she wasn’t casting spells, it was worse, for it meant Man could be reduced to a quivering wretch through words alone.

Frank spent an uneasy night mulling over what had happened, even as full-body exhaustion set in and begged him to rest.

He had only been asleep a handful of hours when he was roused by a man’s shout at doors to Cecily, and he felt his heart drop straight into his bowels. Were they back from the Beauforts’? How could he meet Cordelia that evening if they were back from the Beauforts’? He’d been a fool to even consider turning down tonight’s invitation – in so doing, he’d manifested a nightmare, a life in which he would never feel that tender punishment again!

Sitting up, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the snow continued its frenzy outside. Unlikely they’d risk coming in this weather. He shed his nightshirt, pulled on some old houseclothes, and went to investigate the noise from downstairs.

It turned out to be Victor, the stablehand, sent back on the strongest horse to ensure Frank and Cordelia were safe, with a few bags of provisions in tow. He protested when Cordelia led him to the drawing room, insisting he couldn’t possible sit on one of the expensive French sofas, but the fatigue of the trip won out in the end and he wearily plopped down on a blanket – after kicking off his boots, of course, so as not to make a mess on the carpet. He tugged a second blanket around his shivering form, huddled close to the fire, and moved his toes in their thick woollen socks.

‘Boxing day gift from his Lordship,’ he said, indicating his feet. ‘Why they’re clean as a whistle, thank God. An’ thank _you_ , Mr Dunsmore, Lady FitzRoy.’

‘Nonsense! After you braved the wilds to see to our wellbeing, this is the very least we can do,’ Cordelia said, firmly. She glanced at Frank. ‘A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, don’t you think?’

‘It wouldn’t.’

Cordelia watched him, intently, and he had to shift his gaze away to avoid flushing in shame. He knew what she wanted: for an obedient Frank to boil the kettle, pour out a cup for the _s_ ervant – and that was quite beyond the pale. Their night-time arrangement was one thing, but letting it bleed into everyday life? Not a chance.

‘I’ll make one ‘fore I head out, Lady FitzRoy, don’t you worry,’ Victor said in a cheerful tone – punctuated with a loud, sudden sneeze. ‘Oh dear, beg pardon…’

‘You’re frozen to the bone, you poor man! You shall _not_ prepare your own tea.’ Cordelia turned to the kitchen, full of resolve, with a long, poisonous stare in Frank’s direction. ‘I will return post-haste.’

‘I can’t let you do that, madam!’ Victor exclaimed, rising to his feet – and stumbling almost as fast, caught only by reflexes Frank had honed over years of game hunting. Though Frank was taller, Victor positively dwarfed him in sheer muscular bulk, and it was a struggle holding him up.

As Cordelia hurried back to them, Frank put a hand to Victor’s forehead.

‘He has a fever,’ Frank said. ‘It doesn’t feel dangerous, but I do believe it’s there.’

‘Just tired from the trip. Few hours of rest’s all I need.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Cordelia. ‘We won’t send you out to die.’

‘His Lordship will worry… he wants to know you’re safe –‘

‘His Lordship can wait until tomorrow, at the _very_ least.’ She hooked an arm under Victor’s, and helped him up. ‘Can you walk?’

‘Yes.’

He gently tried to wriggle away, embarrassed at such close quarters with his superior, but she held firm, and he could hardly shove a lady off himself, even if her conduct was less than proper.

‘Good. You must stay the night. If you fainted on your way back into the town, it would be of benefit to nobody. I will help you to your room.’

‘No,’ Frank said, walking to them. ‘I will. I know where it is. Prepare some refreshments.’ Ordinarily, he would have ended the sentence there, but lingering threads of the previous night still bound him to a sense of politeness, and he couldn’t bite back a parting: ‘Please.’

She didn’t seem impressed at his need to assert himself _now_ , but she whisked away to the kitchens while Frank took Victor’s arm and escorted him downstairs.

He didn’t know the stablehand as well as the rest of the servants. Victor had been brought on in rather a hurry only six months ago, after old Benjamin’s fall left him unable take care of the grounds on his own, but the boy’s love for the horses was obvious and he’d never put in a bad day’s work.

‘Bless you, sir,’ Victor said, once he was sure Cordelia couldn’t hear. ‘I’ve no wish for Lady FitzRoy to set foot in the servants’ quarters. Madam does speak her mind, eh?’

‘Yes, rather too much, as it happens.’

A quiet laugh rumbled Victor’s strong build. Frank could feel the vibrations travel up his arm, where it touched the man’s side. He noted that the same fine dark hair on Victor’s head was all over his body – peeking out from under his sleeve in an ivy trail up to his little finger, dusted as stubble over his square jaw, even in the form of thick chest hair faintly visible past his collar.

Victor tried to gently dissuade him from coming into his room, but Frank knew he’d get a moral thrashing from Cordelia if he didn’t ensure Victor was safely in his bed, and so, he hovered at the door while Frank changed. At first, he considered the size of the place, calculating how many times he could fit this room in his own bedroom (eight, perhaps), but his eyes were continuously drawn to Victor as he began to shed his clothes.

The small window high up on the wall cast dark shadows that highlighted the lines of his rugged arms, the definition on his broad back, and, when he dropped his breeches, an arse that could have been sculpted out of marble. Mercifully, damnably, his form was soon obscured by an old nightshirt that barely came down to mid-thigh. As he folded and stored his clothes, he nodded at Frank a little shyly.

‘Sir? Something on your mind?’

‘Er,’ Frank let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, groped internally for something to say, ‘how is Bucephalus tolerating Lord Beaufort’s stables?’

Victor lit up. ‘Oh, Lord Beaufort’s men feed the animals all sorts of things they oughtn’t. Fattest horses you’ll ever see, no mistake! Bucey’s in heaven. Proper Christmas feast.’

Frank had to smile, too. ‘Hopefully we won’t be separated too long. I shouldn’t like to have to restrict his diet, and I can’t imagine he’d enjoy it, either.’

‘Nah – no, Sir, t’won’t be a tick. One of Lord Beaufort’s neighbours knows how to read the sky. Old fella, says he ain’t seen snow like this since last century. Should take less ‘n a week to clear up.’

‘Ah. Good news, then.’

Only a few days of nightly exploration left. Victor’s presence made Cecily feel part of the real world again, out of this liminal space he and Cordelia had occupied. Right now, he couldn’t imagine having to get back to polite society. Had this short a time truly been enough to revert him to a semi-feral state? Perhaps Hobbes really was right about Man’s brutish nature.

Frank was about to excuse himself to help Cordelia bring Victor’s meal down, allowing his gaze to lift from the ground, up Victor’s powerful legs, when he focused on something that should never have caught his attention.

Nudity among the same sex was inevitable – at school, swimming, a host of other occasions – and though his thoughts might stray, Frank never found these situations particularly trying.

There was no good reason, then, why the sight of Victor’s fat cockhead dangling just below the hem of his shirt should be like a bolt to the brain. Was it that it was half hidden? Calling out to be touched, for the foreskin to be teased back to expose more of that alluring pink glans? All Frank knew is that it made him salivate, and that it absolutely _shouldn’t_.

‘Frank.’

He jumped out of his skin, whipping round to see Cordelia standing at the bottom of the stairs with a heavy wooden tray, bearing a steaming teapot and a plate of cold cuts and bread.

‘Cordelia! I – thought you wouldn’t know where we would be.’

‘I do have a house of my own. I am aware of where servants generally reside.’

Frank hurried over, took the tray, and brought it to Victor’s room, setting it down on the empty bed opposite.

‘There. Get some rest, dear fellow,’ he muttered, heading back to the door.

‘If you feel yourself growing fainter, you must tell us!’ Cordelia exclaimed.

‘Thank you kindly, Lady FitzRoy!’ Victor shouted back. He caught Frank’s eye, waiting for his master to leave before he ate or took to bed, and nodded warmly. ‘And thank you very much, Mr Dunsmore. I’ll always be grateful I enquired ‘bout work at Cecily.’

‘Get some rest,’ Frank repeated, with a small smile.

Pulse pounding, he quietly shut the door, merely trading one problem for another: slowly, willing himself to calm down, he faced Cordelia, and walked towards her with casual affect.

Cordelia was, as usual, impervious to any attempts at reading her thoughts, but the glint in her eye told Frank that she knew. Knew _what_ , he couldn’t be sure himself. But he was certain she’d realised the new shape she was moulding him into made him see everything in a new light – including the friendly stablehand.

Frank wished he _had_ gone to brew that blasted tea after all.

The remainder of the day crawled by. Cordelia spent the bulk of it finding excuses to flutter within earshot of downstairs. This worrisome side was entirely at odds with the way she treated Frank, both in and outside the bedroom. He wasn’t jealous, oddly, but seeing her near the door to the servants’ quarters constantly reminded him of Victor’s presence, and, consequently, of that fleeting glimpse of Victor’s exposed member, head hanging between his thighs like the most succulent plum.

To avoid driving himself mad, Frank tended to the lone horse in the stables – Helios, whom Victor had ridden through the storm, a piebald beauty belonging to his father, who likely saw the stablehand as his true master nowadays. Afterwards, he spent a considerable amount of time entertaining Cecily’s four English Mastiffs, racing them on short loops around the kennel and enduring their slobbering kisses.

When the sky was the colour of pitch, Frank stood before Cordelia’s door.

He had hesitated. Not as long as the previous night, but he had hesitated. In truth, he’d tested his luck in his responses to her throughout the day, and the prospect of punishment for insubordination filled him with dread and anticipation in equal measure. He was also uniquely aware of Victor’s presence within the house. Purgatory, paradise – whatever this place may be, it had been breached, and they could so easily be discovered.

If he’d ruminated much longer, Frank might have retreated, but Cordelia yanked open the door in the midst of his internal battle.

‘You said you would come earlier,’ she stated flatly.

‘I have.’

‘Not if I’d left you to your own devices. You’ve been standing there an age. I will accept teething troubles in your tutelage, but you owe me the common courtesy of keeping time. Do you understand?’

Frank nodded, guardedly. Cordelia noted his reluctance.

‘ _Do_ you understand?’

A pause.

‘Yes.’

‘Splendid. Enter, remove your clothes.’

Just as he had before, Frank felt a strange and intense thrall take hold of him. Cordelia went to the dressing table to look over a few items Frank could not quite see, while he freed his shirt and pulled it up over his head. It felt strange, being bare chested in a space that wasn’t his own, much less with his Ambrose’s wife present. He dithered when he hooked his thumbs into the waist of his bottoms. Could he truly go through with it? Their games had by no means been normal up ‘til now, but at least they’d remained sartorially appropriate. There would be no turning back.

‘Breeches and drawers too,’ Cordelia said, without turning around. ‘Hop to it.’

‘I am afraid of Victor finding out,’ Frank mumbled.

Cordelia looked at him in the mirror of the dressing table, strictly keeping to his face, not letting her eyes wander to his exposed flesh. ‘Does he make a habit of barging into married women’s rooms in the middle of the night?’

‘I don’t pretend my fears stand on solid ground. Only that I feel them.’

‘Then don’t feel them. Think only of me.’

She returned to her task. Frank took a deep breath, gripped his waistband with such force his fire-damaged fingers tingled, and discarded his trousers and undergarments in one quick motion.

Cordelia turned to look him over. His body was slender, with thicker muscle around the thighs from riding, and wispy, fair body hair. His nipples stood hard as pebbles – though because of the cold or the circumstances was anyone’s guess – and his slim, beautiful cock pointed towards the ceiling.

She approached him with a predatory glint, circling to observe him from all sides, and stopped behind his back. Her body did not quite touch his, but her breath tickled his nape with every word, spreading gooseflesh with each syllable.

‘You’re so eager. We’ve yet to do anything, and you already stand at attention?’

‘I do not control it,’ he said. As if on cue, his dick twitched at all the scrutiny. Cordelia laughed.

‘You don’t control much of anything, do you?’

He shook his head. His breathing was becoming laboured, and she hadn’t even touched him.

‘You admit to being feeble. That’s good. Some of us are born to lead, others to obey.’

Frank sucked in his breath as her soft fingertips ghosted over his arms, travelling to stroke his taut stomach in a near-embrace. Her lips grazed his neck now.

‘I could make you come with words and patience alone. Have you been bottling these feelings all day? Have you been dreaming of your rightful place? Is it just me, or the boy, too?’

That question shook the foundations of his mind palace. Not enough to make it crumble, but enough to make him tense up. Victor had no place in this realm of his psyche. Perhaps Cordelia knew this was out of bounds, because she did not press the issue. Her hands departed Frank’s body.

‘Close your eyes.’

He did, full of trepidation. Footsteps, travelling to the dressing table, then back behind him. Contact with his shoulders, then the smell of leather, of the kennel, and pressure closing around his throat

He blinked, reached up automatically to feel the collar Cordelia fastened around his neck. She must have snuck out to the dogs without Frank noticing. It was made of sturdy brown leather, pliable and comfortable with age. A brass plate on the front bore the simple inscription _Cecily Hall_.

Distracted, he was particularly vulnerable when Cordelia knocked him on the back of the knees, sending him sprawling onto the carpet. He’d removed the bandages from his fingers, but the skin was still sensitive, and the bristles under his hands were like tiny needles. He looked up at Cordelia, bewildered.

‘I thought you said –‘

‘Shush. Even the most talented dog is unable to speak. If you must make a noise, bark.’

‘But I –‘

‘You’ve earned your way out of being an object. It would be quite a promotion to go straight to being human, would it not? Now. Bark.’

Frank raised himself up onto his hands and knees, and though he couldn’t look at Cordelia’s face as he did so, he let out a convincing animal yelp.

‘Oh? Do you want to play?’ Cordelia went to the dressing table and retrieved a handful of conkers, lustrous and pretty, which she cast on the ground. A few came to a quick halt on the carpet, beside Frank, while most bounced away on the hardwood floors, into corners and under furniture. ‘Fetch!’

Frank looked at the nearest chestnut, bowed down, and picked it up between his teeth. Cordelia had taken a seat beside the table, and watched him crawl towards her with a smile on her face. When he was within reach, she plucked the conker out of his mouth and ruffled his short blonde hair. Frank closed his eyes, sighed happily at her fingers raking over his scalp.

‘What a clever boy! Go on, bring me the others.’

Frank wondered if his scarlet face was growing any redder as he turned his back to reach the next chestnut. He did his best to walk at a brisk pace, but he knew Cordelia was looking at his arse, his _hole_ , the way his bollocks and cock swayed. By the time he brought the final conker, after a lot of praise and petting, he was panting and positively _dripping_ , clear precome hanging in a long string from the tip of his prick.

‘Well done, darling!’ cooed Cordelia. She grabbed his hands and placed them on her knees, like a dog might pose, so she could more easily run both hands through his hair and cup his face. ‘I knew you’d be a champion at this. Good lad!’

Frank gave a throaty whine, but Cordelia acted as though he weren’t straddling the edge of madness, desperate for release after almost two days of soaked in eroticism. She gave him a quick, tiny kiss on the forehead, and moved out the chair, guiding him to lie on his back. Then, she ran her open hands on his stomach, his chest, petting him like he’d stroked his own dogs just a few hours ago, so soft and loving on his feverish skin. Cordelia murmured playful accolades, made small nonsense doting noises, and Frank’s mouth opened in overstimulation when she nonchalantly rolled his firm nipples under her palm. His cock was flush against his belly, dribbling into his navel, but she didn’t so much as graze against it, not even when Frank’s hips began shallow involuntarily jerks, a primal reflex to fuck though there was nothing to thrust into.

‘ _Someone_ is becoming rather too excitable,’ Cordelia chided in that sugary tone. ‘I know just the thing.’

Just like that, those fairy fingers were gone from his body. Frank twisted his hips from side to side with a sad keening sound, trying to garner some relief by rubbing his glans against his come-slicked stomach. Cordelia clicked her tongue and he stopped moving, obediently waiting as she felt around his collar.

It thrilled him that it had taken so little time for it to feel like _his_ collar.

Having found what she wanted – a brass ring near the back – Cordelia clipped a leather lead to it and patted Frank’s chest before standing up.

‘It’s time for a walk!’

Thirsting to please, Frank rolled over right away and got on all fours. His knees were smarting from unprotected abrasion, flushed almost as deeply as his face, but the pain barely penetrated his dreamy internal oasis.

An oasis that began to shimmer out of existence when Cordelia headed for the door.

Frank followed for a few more steps, but planted himself solidly when it was obvious she intended to exit. Cordelia glanced back and tugged on the lead, gently at first. Frank let out a canine whine.

‘Come, Frank. You don’t expect me to walk you around my room, do you?’

She pulled harder, and the collar climbed up the back of Frank’s neck, catching under his chin, narrowing his airways, reducing his breathing to shallow gasps that soon had him lightheaded – which might have been pleasurable, worth exploring further, in other circumstances. Though he put it off as long as he could, he eventually grunted:

‘ _No_.’

The lead untensed at once, instantly allowing him to breathe, but Cordelia didn’t move further.

‘We won’t go outdoors. We shall only wander Cecily Hall.’

‘We can’t. What of Victor?’

‘Victor is soundly asleep in his quarters, recovering from a chill. What reason would he have to be stalking through the house?’

‘Hunger.’

‘I brought him food while you were out. He won’t want another meal.’

‘Still. You aren’t considering the risks.’

Cordelia frowned and approached him. ‘Do you think I’ve never led evenings like these before, in environments with far more people who really _could_ discover us? It is _obvious_ I consider all the risks.’

‘You don’t understand –‘

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re a woman!’ Frank hit the floor with his fist. ‘You don’t understand what a man’s pride means to him!’

‘Could I have you crawling like a bitch if I didn’t?’

Frank balked, and sat up on his haunches, suddenly extremely aware of his nakedness. He only felt more exposed when Cordelia marched over and stripped him of his – of _the_ collar. The chain portion of the lead clanked against itself as she wound it round the collar and dropped it on the dressing table.

‘The issue is not that I do not understand. It is that you do not trust me.’

Unwilling to turn around, Frank jumped when his clothes hit his back, tossed by Cordelia. He gingerly got to his feet, awkward and strange after such a long time on his hands and knees, and winced as he bent one aching leg to step into his drawers. Despite the frosty shift in tone, his residual wantonness manifested in a persistent half-mast, which he had trouble adjusting his underclothes around.

‘We met scarcely a week ago,’ he said, pulling up his breeches now. ‘Can you truly blame me?’

‘I can.’ She deliberately walked into his field of vision and crossed her arms tightly. ‘Regardless of what you might believe – or _profess_ to believe – I have my own pride. I trusted Ambrose’s word on your nature. Had he or I been mistaken, had you chosen to denounce me, I could not in all good conscience remain wedded to him.’

Frank smoothed his shirt down over himself and sighed with impatience. ‘You shouldn’t have trusted him, not that I know _why_ he put these ideas in your mind in the first place –‘

‘He wants you _happy_!’ Cordelia exploded. ‘He adores you, and he’s not a complex man. You know this. If he found fulfilment in being as the ground beneath my feet, he believed the same might be true of you. Based on what he told me, I agreed. When I met you, it was further confirmed.’

‘What _did_ he tell you?’

‘What he observed when you were at school. When you were caned. When the both of you wrestled. When you served his peers, the older boys. Peace. Joy. Just as he had felt.’

The thought that someone as simple as _Ambrose_ had noticed all of these things was deeply frightening. Who else might have the same impressions? Or did one have to have this queer disposition in order to pick up on these clues?

‘If you wish to remain within the confines of your old life, that is your prerogative,’ Cordelia said. She was seated on the edge of her bed, gazing at him with an icy glint in her eyes. ‘I do not believe a man can become fully realised without pushing himself beyond what he finds comfortable. If you disagree, there is no point in continuing our encounters.’

All of Frank’s insides were frigid, but his eyes burned. His conscience screamed at him to plead, to apologise, but simultaneously, he felt he had nothing to apologise for. Man ought to have a sense of justice, even in these strange circumstances. So he nodded like a mechanical doll, ambled to the door, and did not look back even once on his way back to his room.

He rose late the following day, after troubled dreams. Though he’d managed to fall asleep quickly, the theatre of his oneiric state worked twice as hard to process the events. In dreams, he was a schoolboy once more, wandering the cavernous halls of his boarding college, the only corporeal individual amidst a sea of translucent ghosts. Occasionally, very occasionally, he’d spy another character of flesh and bone, but the sight alarmed him, repelled him, made him flee down another hallowed hall.

A few times, he’d spotted Ambrose.

Performing his morning ablutions, he pondered his cousin’s lot. They’d been close in childhood, and Ambrose had been a guardian angel of sorts when it was finally time for Frank to attend school far from home, protecting him from the worst of the welcoming rituals, even as Frank realised how much he longed to participate. As Cordelia tactfully put it, he’d never been a complex person, but he was kind and dedicated and a surprisingly competent sailor.

When had Frank started to dislike him?

True, Ambrose was loud. He could be careless in manner and speech. He was quick to fall for passing fashions and bad habits. None of that warranted unmitigated disgust. It didn’t warrant reading a warm invitation to a wedding, and promptly tearing it in half to continue a continental holiday Frank had organised on a whim.

Cordelia was in the kitchens when Frank entered for breakfast.

‘Good morning,’ she said, in a neutral tone.

Frank nodded at her, and went to fetch a cup of milk. Victor’s bundles included a couple of bottles of the stuff, and with temperatures as they were, it would survive for a while in good condition inside the butlery. As he drank, feeling a delightful sense of transgression at padding around the kitchens, he investigated what Cordelia was doing. She’d unwrapped a spiced honey cake and cut clumsy slabs out of it, spread a generous layer of butter on top, and was arranging the plate next to a cup of cocoa on the reliable wooden tray.

‘Could you take this to him? I imagine he’d rather a man do it.’

Frank gulped down the last of his milk. Passing the tray to him, Cordelia’s skin grazed against his, and he had to make a conscious effort not to react, to let his yearning heart go into double-time. After their disagreement, life felt very colourless indeed, and that brief touch was a pop of sweetness in a sour day.

If only he knew how to address what he felt. If only he knew what it _was_ he felt!

Downstairs, Frank knocked on the closed door of Victor’s room, and opened it with his elbow when he heard a murmur. Victor was sluggishly trying to get out of bed, and Frank had to swiftly set the tray down and usher him back under the covers – if only so he wouldn’t catch a glimpse of that perfect body.

‘Bless you, sir,’ Victor mumbled raspily, as Frank put the breakfast down on his lap. ‘I’m ever so grateful, I’m sorry about – all this. ‘s shameful.’

‘Well, ‘tis the season for charity and whatnot. How are you feeling?’

‘Oh, I’ll – I’ll be on my feet by supper, Mr Dunsmore!’ he said, trying to sound energetic.

Even Frank could see he was putting on an act. All his gestures were heavy, awkward. The cake missed his mouth more than once, and lifting the cup to his mouth seemed like a herculean task.

‘Thanks for coming to see me, sir. Not used to being alone in a room. Jack’s usually in the other bed. Feels, er, not natural, like.’

‘You didn’t have a room of your own before you came here?’

Victor laughed, without malice. ‘With six of us kids and both parents still living? Not a chance, sir. T’was a small place, but I’m sure it feels as large as Cecily now. My sister Helen ‘n I found work, Harry – the youngest’s – set to take over the homestead. It’s just him ‘n my mother now.’

Frank didn’t have to ask to know what had happened to the unmentioned siblings and father. Even his own social circle had been badly hit when measles swept the land. He watched Victor finish his food, thinking, and licked his full lips before speaking:

‘Victor. May I ask why you chose to come to us?’

He blinked. ‘Word was you needed someone good with horses, so I tried my luck.’

‘Ah, yes, of course – what I meant is… you came here from a farm. You’d never worked at a house. So how did you… how did you have the fortitude to take such a leap of faith?’

Though he still appeared confused, Victor smiled slightly. ‘Not much choice, sir. Money’s needed back home. When I saw the house for the first time – well, of course I was scared, had half a mind to turn tail, but Cecily’s such a trek from town it felt like a waste not to knock. Backed myself into a corner so I _couldn’t_ run.’

Ah. Desperation. It ought to be counted among the classical elements, for all the prominence it had in the lives of men. Frank sighed, stood up from the neighbouring bed, and took the tray off Victor’s lap.

‘I’ll make my own dinner, sir. If you’d please tell Lady FitzRoy.’

‘We’ll see if she’ll allow it.’

Victor chuckled, shaking his head. ‘S’ppose it’s nice to be looked after, once in a while.’

‘It is.’

‘Sir,’ Victor called, before Frank could leave the room. ‘I, er… it was frightening, thinkin’ of workin’ here. It truly was. But I don’t s’ppose I shall ever come to regret it.’

Frank remained at the door for a beat, then nodded, with a guarded smile. ‘Try to replenish your strength.’

A moment later, Frank set the tray down on one of the kitchen tables, stared at the whorls and minute imperfections worn over decades of use. Shallow grooves were carved into its surface where plates and pans most often stayed. He ran a finger around the circular pattern.

Compared to Victor, it was unlikely Frank would ever have to contend with such weighty choices.

It was all relative, of course. He wasn’t about to start waving the Jacobin flag and call for a great levelling, but it put his own circumstances in perspective. He would never have to come begging for livelihood at the door of his betters. Where Victor’s choice only was one in the loosest sense of the term, Frank truly _could_ decide whether he wanted to submit, and to whom.

He was not driven by desperation.

And yet, it felt as though he were.

Desperation for those deepest needs to be filled. For a firm hand and a warm touch. For something to believe in, and someone, too. For an escape from a life as rudderless as it was charmed.

Walking back through the corridor to the stairs, he saw Cordelia in the drawing room. She was absorbed in a thick tome, paying him no mind. She probably hadn’t even realised he was watching her. With her defences lowered, Frank could see the lines under her eyes, the protective way in which she curled onto herself to read. What did she get out of their exchange? It felt like more than a simple reclamation of power. It didn’t feel as selfish as that.

Had she introduced the idea to her marriage? Had Ambrose?

It was odd to consider that he and his cousin might share the same proclivities, but they really had been quite close growing up. They’d lived through many of the same experiences, and had grown so distant – still, something united them. For so long, he’d seen the man as beneath him, an oaf in tin decorations. A condensed version of his own worst habits. Had it ever brought him more than malicious, short-lived self-satisfaction?

Perhaps his disdain for Ambrose had begun when he realised the disdain he felt for himself.

Frank waited for dusk in his rooms, trying to distract himself with all manner of stories and amusements, but his thoughts kept circling the drain. He was still mulling them over when he stood before Cordelia’s door later that night.

She answered promptly, but did not make way for Frank to enter, as she usually did. Instead, she eyed him with as much wariness as weariness, and said nothing. Maybe she had not planned their evening at all, and this was a fool’s errand, but Frank knew he had to let his current burst of adrenaline carry him through what he was about to do.

‘I spoke to Victor. When I brought him breakfast.’

‘Did you receive his permission for us to continue?’

Frank laughed, awkward. ‘Nothing like that. I asked for his advice. Obliquely, you understand, but he gave me something I could work with. In dire straits, a man’s instinct will force him to make dangerous decisions, or force someone to make them for him.’

‘Desperation conquers fear. Ambrose could have told you that the very first time his ship was fired upon.’

‘Just so.’

The air was cold, and with the storm giving Albion temporary reprieve, it was far more silent than it had been for days. Frank took a deep breath. Then, he stepped back, placing himself firmly in the centre of the corridor, and pulled off his loose cotton shirt. His light chest hair did nothing to protect him from the chilly conditions, and he could feel his nipples tingle – which, in a way, was just as well, considering what was to come.

With his eyes firmly fixed on Cordelia’s, he shed his slippers, his trousers, and his stockings. He had chosen to forego his drawers, and stood as naked as the day he was born, in a hallway with nowhere to hide. Under Cordelia’s impassive gaze, he couldn’t help but feel his member stir. This was fine. She deserved to know the effect she had on him. With reverence, he sank to his knees, which still smarted from last night’s activities, and placed his hands on the soft carpet.

The seconds during which she considered his position were agony. Sitting on full display outside the safe confines of a bedroom was more difficult than he’d imagined, more thrilling, more decadent. He only hoped that his feelings were clear. He did not intend to speak another word until they parted.

Slowly, Cordelia further opened the door, and walked towards him. She wore her day clothes, still, and Frank didn’t know whether she’d been expecting him, or whether he’d simply arrived as early as he’d been promising to, for once. She crouched and touched the side of his neck.

‘You came back, boy. Where’s your collar? Did you leave it with your friends? That won’t do, will it?’

Frank whined, and shifted his weight from limb to limb like an anxious puppy. Cordelia’s hand briefly cupped his cheek, then ran through his hair. It was only for precious few strokes, but Frank sighed in pleasure, felt himself sink back into the comfortable morass of submission. Cordelia quickly fetched the leather lead from her room, and fashioned a makeshift choke collar by looping it through a portion of its brass chain. It was far thinner than the standard collar, and Frank found himself yearning for that solid weight, the cool brass details, even the animal smell it carried.

He followed Cordelia down the corridor, towards the stairs, and his pulse quickened with every yard they crossed, every step he precariously manoeuvred on all fours – but she was beside him, she held his lead, and, standing in the entrance hall of Cecily, grovelling at his master’s feet with no clothes and a stiffening cock, he had no choice but to trust her.

Sweet desperation.

They went into the drawing room, then through to the kitchens – but Frank paused when Cordelia approached the door leading outside. Without a second thought, she raised her fist and tightened the strap around his throat. At the same time, she went to him, winding the lead around her hand to keep it in tension, and petted his unruly curls.

‘We have to retrieve your collar. There’s no way but to go outside.’ Frank’s face was bright red, and he gasped, trying to breathe in any air at all, leaning into her touch. ‘It won’t take a minute, don’t worry.’

With that, she walked back to the door, and just as a frenzy of black popping dots began to crowd the edges of Frank’s vision, she relaxed the tie that bound them. The first lungful of air was ambrosia, but the second, frigid from the night air that blew in when Cordelia opened the door, gilded this relief with anxiety. Frank could see the grey structure of the kennel. It truly was not too far off, but in the present circumstances, it looked as distant as America. At least the storm had slowed to a smattering of falling flakes and the occasional gust of wind, for now.

Still sensing his trepidation, she went to the cooking stove, where an ever-present fire kept a hanging pot of water lukewarm. She added a hefty log, stoked the flames, and lowered the pot.

‘When we return, I shall give you a warm bath and a fuss. How does that sound?’

Frank nodded, thought better of it, and tip-tapped his hands on the ground with a bark. Cordelia smiled and stepped into the snow, which was about mid-calf. Frank followed, shivering from more than the cold – which was considerable. Cecily wasn’t the warmest in the winter months, but Frank’s body was hot with arousal and anxiety, and he let out an involuntary, perfectly canine yelp when his bare skin touched the ice. He heard Cordelia giggle, and this empowered him to soldier on, even as his poor bare prick shrank from being dragged through the snow.

They reached the kennel soon enough, and Cordelia tied her end of the lead to a hook near the door.

‘Wait, little lad,’ she said, producing the key from her coat pocket. ‘I shan’t be long.’

And she was gone.

Frank knew she would honour her word, and settled down into a sitting position, like any good dog waiting for its master. Though his breath came out in clouds, and his whole body trembled, he was growing accustomed to the temperature, and felt almost hot in the places where skin directly touched snow. This was not a good sign, but he had chosen dependence, and he fundamentally trusted that Cordelia would bring him inside before he was in real danger.

The kennel was state-of-the-art, with a water system built into the walls that kept it at a reasonable temperature even in these conditions. Frank leaned his back against it, and found that it was considerably warmer than the walls of Cecily. The Mastiffs usually had free reign of the grounds in their capacity as guardians, but Lord Dunsmore was far too attached to make them roam in this weather. Besides, he reasoned, what fool would venture outdoors at night in December?

What fool, indeed.

Through chattering teeth, Frank took in a shuddering breath, and raised his eyes to the sky. It remained largely grey, but fissures of inky night crept by from time to time, and through them, he could see shimmering stars.

The door creaked, and Frank bounded to the exiting Cordelia, jumping up to paw at the front of her thick coat with true enthusiasm. She locked the entrance to the kennel and smiled at him, holding the prized collar in her hand.

‘You’re lucky you’re my favourite. You get to sleep indoors instead of with your friends.’

She removed the leather strap from around his neck and replaced it with the worn collar, still warm from being around a dog’s throat. Frank sighed at the comfortable weight of it, the security of no longer being a naked mutt, and eagerly ambled in front of Cordelia towards the estate. On the way, he spied the small windows near the ground that allowed light to shine into the servants’ quarters. Inside the rooms, they were high up on the wall, not really made to be looked out of, but he felt his snow-shrunken dick tingle at the prospect of Victor standing on his bed to watch them, perhaps taking that thick cock in hand at his master’s humiliation.

Cordelia noticed his glance, like she seemed to notice everything.

Near the open kitchen door, in view of the windows, she stopped and tugged on the lead to signal to Frank. He turned to her, confused, and her wicked grin sent a special shiver down his already quivering body.

‘I shouldn’t like to come outside again tonight. I suggest you empty your bladder now. If you need to be walked later, I shall be quite cross.’

Frank stared at her, unsure he’d heard correctly, but Cordelia simply raised her eyebrows and darted her eyes towards the nearby servants’ window. There was no one, of course, no face sneaking a look at the spectacle, but it was dark. Perhaps they simply couldn’t see inside, but whoever was inside could see out.

Surely not? Surely.

‘We haven’t all night. Come now.’

It was too much. It had to be. Doing something like this in front of a lady – even with everything else they’d explored already, it was another step he couldn’t take back. Another aspect of his privacy he’d never see in quite the same way… and this lit a fire under in his belly. He shifted his thighs together, warmed up his pathetic penis. It was true he _could_ urinate, though it wasn’t a pressing need. Cordelia wanted him to.

He’d sworn to be a good dog.

Although he couldn’t meet Cordelia’s eyes as he did so, he cocked his leg, fought an internal battle to overcome performance anxiety, and let flow a stream of light piss into the snow. The release was satisfying, infinitely more sensual by the certainty of his master’s watch, the _possibility_ of his servant’s. He whined just a tad when he finished, and even in this frigid environment, his prick had regained some of its usual glory, plumped up and pink from his display.

‘Good boy,’ Cordelia cooed, quickly petting him. ‘Let’s go inside.’

Frank hadn’t noticed his fingers had grown completely numb until he was once again made to reckon with hardwood floors. There was a definite surreality to sitting in a big tin tub in the kitchen, sensation slowly returning to his extremities, while Cordelia tested the water on the stove for the right temperature. With a satisfied hum, she scooped some up with a jug and carefully poured it into the tub. Frank flinched, hissed a little, as the hot water scalded his frosty flesh, but he soon began to warm up and relax his tense posture.

‘Alright, let’s get you clean.’

She poured another jugful of water over Frank’s head. With his hair plastered over his eyes, he didn’t see her reach for him with a moistened cloth, and gasped at the soft touch on his back. The pressure was firm, with two hands, rubbing against his skin in a cleansing massage. Cordelia brushed his locks out of his face with her bare fingers, and used the cloth to gently scrub his face, over the stubble that had grown in the days since they’d been left to their own devices, then down his chest.

She hummed a tune as she went, occasionally asking for Frank to move, as one might when bathing a real dog. The tender stroking, combined with the atmosphere of powerlessness, had its consequences, and it didn’t take long for Frank’s once timid dick to grow into a robust erection.

‘Lay back, good boy.’

Frank did, settling into the bottom of the tub somewhat awkwardly, staring at a dark ceiling illuminated by the flickering stove fire. He felt Cordelia’s cloth-covered hand slip from the back of his raised thigh to between his legs, pressing two fingers against his hole and rubbing in tight circles. His breath caught in his throat – cock throbbing at the unexpected, intensely forbidden touch – and came out in a strangled moan when she moved up to cup his balls, then up along his shaft until she’d teased his foreskin over the head. Milky drops of precome landed in the water, dissolving into nothing. He so badly wanted her to continue, to move her hand up and down –

But she stood up from her crouch, and Frank was left soaking in his own frenzied arousal.

‘There. Did you like your bath?’

Frank sat up and keened, but Cordelia just smiled and hooked a finger into the ring of his collar to prompt him out of the tub.

‘I know, you’re cold, aren’t you? I shall fetch your towel. Let me put these things aside, first.’

With that, she turned to face a kitchen counter, and deliberately began to go through the motions of cleaning up the items she’d used, with such deliberate delay it was clear she was giving Frank the opportunity to do something. But what? After that briefest of touches, his cock was begging for attention, his groans insistent. He _so badly_ needed release.

Then, Cordelia shifted her stance, moved her leg just so, and he understood.

He didn’t have the wherewithal to interrogate how demeaning it was. If he’d had his wits about him, he might have analysed it more thoroughly, perhaps gained an intellectual appreciation of the way Cordelia had staged this steady tightening of the strings, but he couldn’t. He wanted to come, and he was a dog, and he reared up on his haunches and mounted her leg.

Cordelia tutted, casually, but did nothing to discourage him. Frank grabbed onto her waist and started to thrust, rubbing his cock onto the solid muscle of her leg, the fine silk of her dress. His hips bucked wildly, ragged moans filtered out his throat, his breaths came so sharp and fast he began to feel dizzy – but he couldn’t stop. He’d been brought to the edge so often over the past three days, he literally _ached_. It wouldn’t take long, not with all this build-up. His prick left sprays of prefuck all over the bottom of her skirts, speeding to that glorious finale –

But Cordelia slapped his arms away from her middle and shook him off her leg.

‘No!’ Frank cried. Instantly mortified at having spoken, even amidst his dismay, he whined instead, sounding the most like an animal he ever had, and butted his head against her hip in an impotent plea.

‘You’re very naughty. I can’t take my eyes off you for a second.’

She took a cosy towel from the counter and wrapped it around Frank’s shoulders, pulling it over his head to dry his hair. He made a final plea for mercy by wriggling out from under the towel and bending low to lick her shoes, trailing his tongue over the shiny surface of her buttoned boots, tasting leather and grit. This left him in the perfect position for a sharp whack on the bum.

‘Stay still,’ Cordelia chided.

She dried off the rest of his body, deliberately avoiding his painful erection, even though he tried hard to move it to where her hands were. When she judged him sufficiently dry, she tipped the contents of the tub down the drain, tossed the used fabrics into a corner, and rushed to the doorway leading to the rest of the house.

‘Come on, Frankie, let’s make the most of the evening before it’s time to sleep, yes?’

Frank watched her round the corner, heard her soles click-clack down the corridor, and had no choice but to hurry behind her on all fours, his unfortunate cock and brimming balls bobbing painfully with each hobble.

The lubricious nature of their play was in no way diminished by their presence in the drawing room. In fact, obeying commands to shake hands, spin, heel, all in a space he’d been in thousands of times with his family, all throughout his life – it had a shamefully powerful effect. His lustful panting only enhanced his canine persona.

Cordelia tormented him for hours, wearing him out with physical exertion, then showering him with heavy petting and the occasional kiss on the forehead or face, peppered with moments where she’d let him lie on the floor before the fire or lounge with his head in her lap, recovering just enough to start all over again. More than once, Frank froze at a loud noise from the floor, the walls, convinced Victor would pop his head round the entrance and everything would fall apart.

But he never did, and Cordelia was able to keep him on the lip of the orgasmic precipice for so long tears welled up in his eyes. She made a noise of pity.

‘You poor thing, you’re dead on your feet. It’s time puppies went to bed.’

Part of him wanted to protest, but he really was shattered, so he let her clip the lead onto his collar and climb back up the stairs. With the end of the session in sight, Frank began to pull himself out of that peaceful, simple place, to become a man once more, capable of thought and action. Pain radiated from his knees. He hadn’t noticed the places where he’d worn down his skin until now, and the sting helped bring him back to reality, even as he was secretly grateful for it – it would remind him of this night, even after Cordelia’s time in Cecily –

Well. No use thinking that far ahead. Particularly not when he still felt this fuzzy.

Cordelia had him sit pretty while she fetched his discarded clothes further up the hall. When she returned, she went down to look him in the eyes.

‘You’ve been such a good, brave boy,’ she murmured, stroking his face with a mother’s tenderness. I’m ever, ever so proud, little lad.’

The words were heavenly. Frank smiled, heart fit to burst, and dared to lean his head against Cordelia’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of her body, her hair, her dress. Her.

He felt her hands go to the back of his neck, and understood she was about to take off his collar. The night had to come to an end, after all. So he kept his face against her body while she undid the buckle, as though hiding in her warmth would stave off the inevitable. The leather band was eased off him, and his throat felt very naked indeed – more than the rest of his body. He took a final, deep breath, and retreated to sit on his heels.

Cordelia held the collar up, gesturing with it. ‘I shall return this and ensure we’ve not left anything unduly disturbed. Rest. Tomorrow, you will have earned your reward.’

Her eyes flickered down to indicate his penis, which had deflated back to near-flaccidity, but perked up with a visible twitch as she spoke. _Finally_.

As Cordelia stood, she supported Frank’s arms to help him rise, too, slowly, to alleviate the pain of using his legs as God intended after such a long time scuttling on the floor. His knees really were quite ruddy, and there would be awful bruising, but the actual wounds were minimal. When they were both back to full height, Cordelia looked at him seriously, pointing at him in a matronly manner.

‘You’re not to come tonight. I believe it was implicit, but you have no excuse now I’ve said it aloud. It will make the impending session even more unforgettable. Do you understand?’

Frank nodded, then spoke, gravelly after producing almost no human sounds all evening: ‘Yes.’

With a satisfied pat of his shoulder, Cordelia passed him his clothes, then turned to make her way back downstairs. She really did put a lot of thought into these proceedings. A lot of effort. It made Frank feel…

Confused.

As usual, a return to reality meant a return to clarity. He’d wondered what Cordelia gained from their exchange, and now he realised how much work was involved not just in managing his experiences, but in physically cleaning up and constantly maintaining an unflappable dominance, he was all the more puzzled. He supposed that, as some people enjoyed submission, others delighted in control, but she hadn’t touched herself once, nor made any attempt to have him please her. Not in ways he understood, anyway.

He yawned. Coming down from the adrenaline of a night with Cordelia was exhausting, and trying to think about anything more abstract than his physical needs would be a fool’s errand. He tossed the clothes onto a chair, decided he couldn’t muster up the energy to even pull on his nightshirt, and simply burrowed into bed naked.

With every movement, the sheets grazed the parts of his body covered in the tell-tale marks of sumptuous abuse. It would be easy to finally relieve himself of his libidinous burden, but Cordelia’s instructions were clear, and he accepted that this would be yet another night he’d go to sleep unsatisfied.

Not that that was entirely accurate. He was, by and large, extremely satisfied. He was encountering all the thrills and delights he’d hoped for during his continental voyage, he’d certainly never been so erotically fulfilled, and he’d relished the chance to break apart from his own sense of self.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a certain apprehension for the next day. Cordelia clearly had something momentous planned, and he wasn’t sure what could supersede his life as a dog. She’d seemed to probe at tender portions of his psyche, seeking what he’d submit to and what he resisted – and, well, she’d literally touched a part of his anatomy he’d not truly thought of before.

In the moment, it had been dwarfed by the lightning bolt of her direct grip on his cock, but now he could re-examine the events, he lingered on the sensation of those two fingers massaging his arsehole. He knew about sodomy, of course – a few boys at school had reputations, some were even caned for their trouble, though it had largely been seen as the folly of youth. There were incessant jokes about sailors, prisons, priests.

Would allowing Cordelia to play with his hole make _him_ a sodomite?

Frank squeezed his legs together. If a woman were to do it, it wouldn’t be quite the same, surely. As for the secret desires that men had inflamed in him throughout his life – well, nothing had ever _happened_ , beyond horseplay and the physical reactions that provoked in healthy, growing lads. He’d never had any concrete ideas of what he wanted to do to others, or have done to him. All he knew was that seeing Victor’s powerful body, that glimpse of his lobcock – it strummed the same cords of his vigour as Cordelia’s slim hands did.

Daring not to linger on this thought, Frank directed his attention to the sibilant storm swelling outside. The grace period was over once again. Their friends and family were unlikely to arrive tomorrow.

Good.

An insistent knock at the door jostled him from his sleep late the next morning, and Frank barely had the presence of mind to step into some old trousers before answering. Cordelia stood there, in a comfortable but pretty house dress. She couldn’t mean to start _this_ early, could she? His joints complained with even minute movements, and his muscles burned in a manner which wasn’t unpleasant, but which certainly indicated he ought to let them rest.

‘Good morning.’

‘Good morning,’ Frank replied automatically.

‘Aren’t you polite?’ She smirked when he avoided her gaze, aware of how well she was training him. ‘Victor seems to be fully recovered. He insisted on preparing breakfast, and he’s to return to the Beauforts’ around noon.’

‘Ah. I see.’ Frank glanced at the sliver of window visible between his heavy curtains, as white as a fresh canvas. ‘Isn’t it still rather dangerous? I don’t know that he should risk it.’

Her smile didn’t shift. ‘Are you disappointed?’

‘No,’ he said, quick as a wink. ‘I expect father will be glad to know we’ve not succumbed to famine. Or insanity.’

‘Have we not?’

He laughed, a slightly uncertain. Perhaps they had. Perhaps her presence in Cecily was a mere figment of his imagination. It wouldn’t be the oddest thing to have happened since their hermitage began.

‘I wager Victor has finished the meal. Pop your shirt on.’

Frank did as he was told, stepped into some slippers, and followed Cordelia down the corridor. They walked in silence. Was he the only one feeling a strange electricity in the air, or did she perceive it, too? They hadn’t exactly spent much of their time in confinement _talking_ , but the debauchery to come loomed heavy over Frank, made it all the harder to come up with anything worth saying. Trailing a couple of steps behind, he observed her, for once not from a worms-eye view. She’d more care into her chignon than usual, probably for Victor’s benefit, but a few sizeable strands and locks had nonetheless come loose, bobbing as she went. Her ears were small, perfectly formed, and her features so thin and fine. How did she command such immediate respect?

‘Yes, Frank?’ she asked, without turning to him.

‘Er,’ he began, ‘Ambrose. Ambrose will be pleased to hear you’re well, won’t he?’

‘Oh, he knows I can fend for myself.’

She flashed the grin of a cat looking at a wounded mouse, and Frank felt a rush of admiration and trust.

The dining room table was already set when they walked in, two sets of dishes and cutlery either side of a rich spread of cured meats, crystallized summer fruits, toasted crumpets oozing butter, steaming cocoa, and generous slices of the customary morning cakes – saffron plum, ratafia, nougat almond.

Victor emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on an old apron. Frank saw colour rise to his cheeks when Cordelia giggled.

‘Somethin’ the matter, Lady FitzRoy?’

‘Not at all – well, perhaps too much of a good thing! Who do you believe is coming to breakfast with us?’

‘There is rather a lot,’ Frank added, picking up a crumpet.

‘Well – I wanted to pay you back for bein’ so kind.’ Victor rubbed his nose with his knuckle. ‘Didn’t have to do any of what you did.’

‘So you prepared three days’ worth of food?’ Cordelia allowed Victor to seat her, promptly warming her slim hands on the cup of cocoa. ‘That’s rather enterprising.’

‘Not much I can do to say thanks,’ Victor said, with a worried smile.

Frank had never noticed how on edge the young man appeared. There was a lot he hadn’t noticed.

Victor spoke to him now, his smile slightly brighter. ‘I’ve seen to the dogs, Mr Dunsmore, an’ I did my best washin’ the tools ‘n towels ‘n such you left in the kitchens. Helios is all set, too.’

Remembering where the cloth had touched him, Frank took a quick bite of the crumpet to give himself a second to think, then nodded at the servant.

‘Very well, Victor, thank you. Are you quite certain the weather will permit safe passage? It can’t be much longer before the storm ends – perhaps my family can wait a few days and see all three of us safe and sound when they return.’

Though Victor politely waited for Frank to say his piece, he’d evidently made up his mind. ‘Thanks awfully for thinking of myself, sir, but I’ve ridden in far worse conditions. ‘sides, his Lordship your father was clear in his instructions. He’ll be upset if I keep dallying.’

‘Sometimes he’s more motherly than mother in his fretting,’ Frank muttered.

‘Will you be eating with us?’

Cordelia’s question was innocent, as though she weren’t suggesting something completely inappropriate. Frank’s shock was superseded only by Victor’s.

‘I’m sure Victor fed himself when he rose,’ Frank said, finally.

‘That’s right, madam. I’m stuffed. Once you’re finished, I’ll clean up and head into town.’

‘We can take care of that, Victor, thank you,’ said Cordelia.

Victor seemed torn, unwilling to leave his masters with menial work, but he was clearly keen on putting some distance between himself and this strange noblewoman, so he nodded and began to retreat, to ready himself for travel

‘Unless, Frank, you’d like to order him to stay?’

Victor looked to Frank with wide, pale eyes. They were remarkably like Cordelia’s in shape, though blue, and unlike hers, Frank could read every thought, or so it seemed – discomfort, loyalty, and an odd little glimmer of hope. Of course, a mere iris could not answer the more pressing questions.

Did he feel the tension in the air?

Did he know about what Frank and Cordelia did?

Did he know about Frank’s nature?

Frank sat opposite Cordelia and waved his hand dismissively. ‘No, you’re free to go. Thank you.’

Victor bowed and dodged towards the servants’ quarters with a sigh of relief.

Once he was sure the stablehand was out of earshot, Frank addressed Cordelia between bites of cake: ‘That was cruel.’

‘What was?’

‘Asking if he’d breakfast with us. What did you expect him to say?’

‘Yes? No? It’s a simple query. We brought him food for two days. It’s not as though we’ve done a particularly good job setting a strict hierarchy.’

‘He was _ill_ , and there are no servants. Necessity doesn’t mandate total social upheaval.’

‘With how well we’ve been getting along, I could have sworn you were amenable to bending in the wind.’ She drank deeply from her cocoa, darted her little tongue over lips reddened by warmth. ‘Unless you want me to believe your characters by day and by night are strictly segregated, and never the twain shall meet.’

‘I do want you to believe that.’

Cordelia raised her brows, smile not faltering for a second, and popped a crystallized strawberry into her mouth. Frank chewed, pondering, and spoke again after washing down his cake with his drink.

‘Cordelia.’

‘Hm?’

‘I, er… I don’t suppose you’ll consider me too forward to asking, as you’ve made your free spirit quite clear.’

She nodded, amused. Somehow, it was far more difficult to broach these topics than it was to frolic in the snow stark naked or relieve himself under her watchful eye. Thinking this only made it harder to continue speaking.

‘I wonder… what you’ve to gain by doing these things. That is to say – I’ve not seen you… make any gestures to, er, come.’

He said the last word staring down at his plate. Cordelia giggled.

‘I’m impressed you managed to verbalise it, Frank. Well done!’

Frank sighed, assuming she would just use it as a tool to tease him with. But she continued:

‘I’ve not allowed _you_ to come to build to a special occasion, and I am doing the same for myself. It’s rather simple.’

‘But you’ve at least taken me to the edge. You don’t seem to… well, I don’t know that women even…’

‘My God, Frank!’ she exclaimed, laughter full of disbelief. ‘Do you believe we’re deceased below the navel? That a quim is no different than the meat on your plate?’

‘Of course not!’ Frank spluttered. If tied to the chimney up on the roof, his face in this moment could have served as a beacon in the snowstorm. ‘I’ve – been with women before –‘

‘To rave reviews, I’m sure!’

‘Cordelia!’

‘Sir?’

Victor stood at the door, swaddled in winter gear, pulling down the top of his scarf to show his face. Frank stared, mortified, wondering how long he’d listened – but he seemed more confused at the apparent verbal sparring than shocked, and the walls of Cecily were thick.

‘Are you going, Victor?’ asked Cordelia.

‘Yes, Lady FitzRoy. I would’ve left without disturbing yourselves, but I didn’t want you lookin’ if you needed somethin’ and not findin’ me.’

‘Thank you, Victor,’ said Frank. ‘You’re free to go. I wish you a safe and swift journey.’

‘Likewise,’ Cordelia added.

Victor gave a quick bow. ‘Thank you, sir, madam. With luck, we’ll all be back here in a snap. Goodbye.’

He waited for Frank to wave him off, and exited through the kitchens. They heard the door to the outside world slam shut, and were once again left alone in a strange world. Frank returned to his meal, finishing off what was on his plate though he’d quite lost his appetite. After a few moments of silence, Cordelia began:

‘It is more than wantonness. That _is_ part of it, of course – a significant one, but you must feel it too.’ She looked at the frigid landscape outside, isolating them from the norms of the land. ‘A sense of peace, of comfort. When you lay at my feet to recuperate, do you feel it?’

‘… yes,’ Frank mumbled. ‘A retreat inside one’s mind.’

‘All my thoughts are preoccupied with my puppy, or my footstool, or whatever else a man may choose to be. It is Cecily in a winter storm whenever I choose to make it so.’ She grinned. ‘And, of course, the sight of a fellow writhing in tortured delight at my hand is one I should struggle to live without.’

Frank breathed in deep, nodded with sudden meekness.

‘I used to wish I had been born a man,’ Cordelia said, standing up and wandering around the table to Frank’s side, sipping from her cup. ‘Not out of any particular desire to be one, but out of jealousy for the opportunities you are given, the force you wield. I believe we shall be able to surpass the stratification of the sexes, though I couldn’t guess when. While I wait, I may as well enjoy the power I _am_ offered.’

‘Are all females with your absurd ideas on sex alike?’

‘If you are asking whether we all enjoy treading on males, the answer is sadly negative.’ She paused behind him, and leaned against the back of his chair, completely out of his sight. ‘More than a few men have converted to the cause of Wollstonecraft, you know. Jeremy Bentham has written as much.’

‘Is he still alive?’

‘Barely. If an antique such as he can hold an enlightened view on the matter, why not the youth of today?’

Frank saw her elegant arm extend to place her empty cup on the table, and yelped when she blindsided him by shoving her other arm tightly against his throat. His hands automatically reached up to clasp her forearm, but he did nothing to escape her grasp, even as she pressed up to cut off his airflow. He only gurgled and groaned, fighting for the slightest breath, face growing redder by the second.

‘I’ll show you what it’s like to be a woman,’ Cordelia said, and her voice echoed loudly, amplified by the heartbeat in his brain. ‘Don’t fret.’

She dropped him, and he doubled over in his seat against the table, gasping like a dying fish. Cordelia’s footfalls disappeared towards the library. Frank’s head felt light. His cock throbbed.

Throughout the day, they encountered each other a number of times. Crossing paths from one wing to another, sitting in companionable silence in the drawing room, dropping by the dinner table to pick at the impressive victuals that remained from Victor’s overzealous breakfast. It was always without incident, but as the hours wore on, Frank felt an undeniable excitement growing, and found it very hard indeed to keep still. He was buoyed when he noticed that Cordelia herself didn’t seem unaffected, bouncing her leg whenever she sat, like a child sent to the corner.

Despite Victor’s assurance that the dogs had been seen to, Frank tried to burn some nervous energy by playing with them, rolling around in the snow as he did when he was a boy. It mostly served to remind him of a mere seventeen hours ago, when he’d gazed at the skies wearing nothing but a leather strap around his neck. He didn’t find himself any calmer than he had been before his romp.

When the clocks struck eight, Cordelia stretched in the armchair, and stood.

‘I think I shall retire for the evening.’

Frank was up like a shot before she’d even finished speaking. ‘Yes, let’s.’

‘You are free to go to your _own_ room. I will need an hour to prepare. Do not knock before then. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

With that, she left him alone in the drawing room. After a dozen long minutes spent peering at the pendulum, Frank put down the book he’d been (unsuccessfully) reading and made his way upstairs to wait out the remainder in his quarters. He stood at his door for a moment, staring at Cordelia's at the far end of the long corridor, as though sheer willpower would grant him the ability to see through walls.

When he entered his room, he saw the bundle on his bed right away. Closer inspection revealed a small, neatly folded pile of women’s clothes.

Frank was beyond being shocked, but heart beat distressingly hard. He’d graduated to being human, as she’d promised, but with an important caveat.

Though he felt the urge to hang on to his masculine pride, he knew he’d never be able to resist the siren call of Cordelia’s door, and his prick was stiffening faster than ever before. With tremulous movements, he shed his outer layers, leaving him in his drawers.

First, he tugged on the white linen chemise, which didn’t feel too dissimilar to a nightshirt. There was no corset among the items, given that Frank’s flat chest wouldn’t fill its cups, and this provoked a mixture of relief and regret. Lacing one alone would have been a nightmare, but he felt oddly robbed of the constriction he’d so enjoyed the one time he’d worn a man’s corset. He’d discarded the item in a fit of pique, much to his annoyance. No matter; the petticoat was next. Tighter around the shoulders than he might have liked, but serviceable. The silk stockings were similar to his own, and he clipped them in place easily.

The gown was a different matter.

He’d seen Cordelia wear it more than once. Bringing the carmine fabric to his nose, he smelled her natural scent, with a hint of lavender. It was also slightly tight on his upper body, but it fit surprisingly well, and it was easy to move in. He looked at himself in the mirror, feeling awkward and ridiculous, and marvelled at the things she could make him do.

As Frank walked to the door, the legs of his drawers rustled against each other, and he stopped.

Ladies didn’t wear drawers. Not _proper_ ladies, anyhow.

Before he could change his mind, he hiked his skirts up – god, _his_ skirts – unbuttoned his undergarments, and left them on his bedroom floor.

Cordelia’s door was ajar when he arrived.

Peering through, Frank could see fire flickering in the hearth. Cordelia had moved the armchair to face it, and he could see a pair of brilliantly polished black shoes with shining buckles at the end of bright white stockings, crossed at the ankle on the stool below. His throat was dry. He knocked.

The legs uncrossed, and the figure that rose wore a handsome Captain’s uniform, blues and whites and golds. It was Cordelia, naturally, wearing Ambrose’s clothes – though surely with some modifications, because it fit her far too well. Her black cravat was impeccably tied. The navy jacket hugged her flattened chest, the wide gold-trimmed lapels ably disguising any remaining hump, the epaulettes broadening her shoulders, and looking further down –

Frank gasped, brought a hand to his face.

Tucked down the left leg of her cream breeches was the unmistakeable shape of an enormous erection, including a bump where the glans would be.

Frank found it difficult to take his eyes off the bulge, even as Cordelia crossed to meet him. The front of his gown tented forward in urgent arousal, despite the fear freezing the bottom of his stomach. He was aware of the fake members one could purchase in London, if one spoke the right words to the right people, but he never expected Cordelia to have one – least of all _here_. He thought she would use her fingers, at the very most, and – and such a monster would _never_ fit inside of him!

Before he knew it, Cordelia stood a foot away, gaze intent.

‘Good evening, Frank,’ she murmured. He’d never heard such tenderness in her voice. ‘You look lovely.’

Frank giggled, but when Cordelia gently took his hand and pressed her soft lips against the back of it, his heart skipped a beat. She continued to hold on while she looked at him again.

‘You don’t have any thoughts about how I look?’ she said, with a smile.

‘Oh, er, yes – I…’ Frank squeezed her hand and looked her up and down, fixating on the intimidating shape in her breeches. ‘You look beautiful – no, er…’ he paused, muddled. At least being a dog allowed him to keep silent. ‘You look… very handsome…’

Cordelia chuckled, and even her laughter seemed somehow virile. She pulled at his hand, and Frank allowed himself to be walked to the wide double bed. Two short glasses of port awaited them on the bedside cabinet. Once seated, Cordelia raised her glass in Frank’s direction.

‘A toast. To a transformative Twelve Days of Christmas.’

‘Quite.’

Their glasses clinked. As the port warmed his insides, Frank found it hard to look at anything around the room. Keeping his eyes off Cordelia would be impolite, and he wanted to play his part properly, but any prolonged glances at her filled him with confusion and guilt. He could smell Ambrose’s tobacco on her clothes. She wore the uniform extremely well, and despite her the tight bun on her head, she looked for all the world like an excessively pretty Navy captain with a tremendous hard-on.

And it did nothing to quell his passion.

Cordelia set her empty glass aside and looked at him with understanding. ‘I see something has caught your eye.’

‘I, er…’

He downed the rest of his liquor, shifted in his seat.

‘You are worried for your maidenhead,’ she said, speaking over his feeble protests. ‘I understand. My fellow’s caused a few frights in his time. But from past experience, I believe you’ll soon want to be utterly ravished.’

She moved up the bed, and Frank allowed himself to be laid down on the expansive feather pillows. He watched Cordelia retrieve a pot of some kind of cream from the bedside cabinet, and lay it within arm’s reach with the top unscrewed.

‘Would you like me to kiss you?’ she asked.

Almost paralysed, Frank nodded. Cordelia wrapped one arm around his shoulders, fanned her hand on his cheek, and brought him close. Intoxicated by the combined scents of Ambrose’s smoky uniform and _her_ , he gasped into Cordelia’s mouth when her agonizingly soft lips pressed against his. His breath quickened, tongues quickly finding each other and moving in slow seduction – it felt so good, _deliriously_ good. He wished they could remain connected like this for hours, hoped they _would_.

When Cordelia pulled his dress up, he naturally spread his legs for her, granting access to his naked cock and arse. She ghosted fingertips up the sensitive inside of his thigh, and pressed the heel of her palm against the swell of his taint, moving in gentle circles while her fingers stroked his trembling buttocks.

‘You’re shaking,’ Cordelia murmured, her lips brushing Frank’s with each word. ‘I’ll be gentle, though it’s going to be a Hell of a challenge. See what you do to me?’

She unhooked her arm from around him and moved his hand to the bulge on her thigh. Seeing her encouraging nod, Frank uncertainly moved up and down the member, feeling that it was far harder than a natural erection, yet with some give – and even knowing it was a dildo, he found himself growing even more lustful as he reached the tip, stroked the curve of the head with his thumb.

Cordelia kissed his neck, nibbled the skin, and sucked. The thrill of her mouth on his throat was second only to her fingers roaming to caress his virgin hole, massaging the sensitive skin until his hips started rocking on their own accord.

‘I’m going to put my fingers inside you,’ Frank heard, from just below his left ear. ‘Would you like that?’

‘Y… yes,’ he breathed.

He opened his eyes and looked down his front. With the material of the skirts hiked up around his lap, he could only barely see the obscene mound where his prick stuck to his belly, saturating his chemise and petticoat with hot, clear pre. He saw Cordelia’s hand withdraw from between his legs, but before he could miss it too much, it dove back into place, and he felt a slick substance coating her fingers – right before the tip of her finger easily slipped inside.

With a sharp intake of breath, Frank gripped Cordelia’s dick with one hand and the sheets with the other, involuntarily tightening around her digit. She kissed his throat, his cheek, and whispered a gentle shush.

‘It will feel far better if you keep yourself lax. You let me in your cunt so readily, my dear, let’s keep it that way.'

‘It isn’t my…’

The words died on his tongue as the finger worked itself deeper inside, as he learned the amazing, alien sensation of something moving inside of his body, wiggling this way and that, searching. A second finger soon joined the first, and when both bent in a come-hither gesture, Frank’s mouth dropped open in lustful incomprehension.

‘Yes? It’s not your…?’ said Cordelia.

‘Nnh…’ was all Frank managed, through gritted teeth, as she focused her movements on this mysterious well of pleasure deep inside his arse.

‘It’s not your cunt? What is it, then, if it so greedily guzzles up my hand and makes you moan like a hedge whore?’

As if to prove a point, she slipped in a third finger, sped up her movements. Frank couldn’t find it in him to respond. All he could do was lie back and breathe hard as his balls tightened, his spine arched, his breathing began to stutter –

And Cordelia ceased her movements.

Frank looked to her with pleading eyes. She merely grinned, withdrew her hand from inside him with an indecent squelch, and unbuttoned the front panel of her breeches.

‘It would be unfair for you to have all the fun, would it not? Touch yourself a while, and busy your mouth with this.’

She pulled the frightfully large tool out of her lap, and all Frank could see it as was Cordelia’s natural prick. His mouth watered just as it had when he’d spied Victor’s dangling fucker. He didn’t stop to think what _she_ would be getting out of it. She wanted him to do it, and that was that.

A lady obeys.

Awkwardly reaching between his legs with one hand to follow the first part of her instructions, Frank leaned over and gripped Cordelia’s shaft with the other, wrapping his lips around the tip before he could attempt to discourage himself. Ignoring his neglected cock, he probed his hole without much confidence, and was shocked at how easily he was able to penetrate himself.

Was this what it felt like, for women?

Exploring the new sensations below the belt, he had the difficult task of splitting his concentration between his hole and his mouth, which tentatively suckled on the tip of Cordelia’s dick. He didn’t want to disappoint.

‘Hold it down harder,’ Cordelia said, covering his hand with her own to demonstrate, bearing down on her lap. ‘Like this.’

He did as he was told, making sure to match the angle she’d shown exactly, and tried to copy the techniques he most enjoyed having done – flicking his tongue under the head, taking care to give her a good view, finding a steady rhythm, and humming once he got her cock as far into his mouth as he could. It was his first time, and he was clumsy, and he couldn’t take very much, but for the first time, he heard _Cordelia’s_ breathing becoming laboured. Her hips gyrated, thrust up to meet him on the downswing, punctuated by throaty moans.

It was driving him insane.

Both by the first real indications of lust he’d seen from Cordelia, and by how awkward he found fingering himself. The stretch remained unfamiliar, but he was quickly growing to enjoy it. He just could _not_ reach that spot Cordelia found with such ease, no matter how much he ventured. Perhaps his angle was wrong. He tried to focus on his other hole, doing his best to suck her off, when he suddenly felt her hands grip his head.

Holding him in place, she started to thrust into his throat. Gently, at first, gauging his reaction. When she saw that he only fingered himself faster, she pumped her hips in earnest, fucking his chaste mouth like he’d been swallowing spunk for years.

With a particularly forceful hump, Cordelia finally made him reach his limit, and he gripped her uniform with an urgent gurgle. Instantly, she pulled his face off her lap and tossed him aside onto the pillows, where he lay crumpled for a moment, red in the face and teary-eyed, coughing.

‘You’ve not done this before?’ Cordelia exclaimed. ‘Good Christ, it’s like you were born for it!’

‘You,’ Frank coughed, ‘you said you’d be gentle! That wasn’t gentle at all!’

‘I said I’d be gentle with your darling little muff, not your gob.’ Frank felt the bed shift under Cordelia’s moving weight. ‘Speaking of which…’

Still recuperating from having his throat ravaged, Frank hadn’t paid attention to _where_ his partner was moving, and yipped when she resolutely slammed him down on his back and spread his legs wide. He wanted to spit out a caustic remark, a clever comeback – anything. But when he saw her kneeling between his parted thighs, in that grand Navy uniform, resting the spit-slicked tip of her prick near his own excruciatingly stiff cock, nothing came out of his abused mouth but a quiet, lustful groan.

‘You’ve been wanting to try it for a while, haven’t you?’ Cordelia casually reached for the tub on the bedside cabinet and scooped out a generous amount of cream, which she glazed over her length as though it were the most normal thing in the world. ‘Feeding off a chap’s tackle, that is.’

‘I don’t know what –‘

‘You’d really try to keep up appearances _now_?’ She laughed. ‘Fine. You did _not_ happen to notice Victor’s oversized whore pipe. You did _not_ spend every moment he was in your sight hoping he’d push you down and keep his prick warm in your mouth. Is that better?’

Frank moaned, shaking his head. Had he been _that_ obvious? Lord above – had _Victor_ noticed?

‘It’s a shame.’ She took herself in hand and lightly slapped the greased-up head of her cock on Frank’s taint, nudged his tight, full balls, pressed against his relaxed hole without going inside, just gliding up and down. ‘I gave you the perfect opportunity. ˮWould you like to order him to stay?ˮ And you dismissed him all the same. Imagine. He could have bred you all night.’

Frank whined. He _could_ imagine it. Victor’s powerful body looming over his, smelling of sweat and the outdoors and hay, clumsy and kind and so terrifically well-hung. Would he find pleasure in Frank’s dress? Would he adoringly stroke Frank’s flat chest through lustrous silk, find eroticism in his master’s girlish stockings and garters? Perhaps it would inflame a different side of him – one that resented their divide in status, one that would mercilessly put Frank in his place with vicious rutting.

Frank shuddered. Cordelia ceased her teasing, rested her dick firmly against his hole.

‘Oh, well. I suppose the duty of breaking in your cunt falls to me.’

And she thrust inside.

Frank was amazed at how smoothly she glided in. His mouth was open in a pink O, fists tightly closed in his gown. Cordelia had only pushed the head in. Tenderly, she reached out with her dry hand and stroked his cheek.

‘Does it hurt?’ she asked.

Frank shook his head, frowning, processing the feeling. ‘It’s… I’ve never felt anything quite like it.’

He gasped. It was going deeper now, inch by inch. Filling him more, more – he’d seen its size, he’d touched it, had it in his mouth. It would never fit inside his poor arse, it simply couldn’t – what sort of born pervert would that make him? No ordinary gentleman could accommodate a tool of that size, only a – a fated molly, a punk.

Cordelia’s hips rested against his backside.

‘You’re full,’ she murmured.

‘Yes.’

She smiled, reared back, and rolled her hips on the upswing to buck right against Frank’s secret hot spot. He cried out, short, sharp, and obscene. Every muscle tensed, tightening around Cordelia’s thrusting cock, and he shot the fruit of three days of denial in thick white ropes all over the front of his dress. Spurts of hot come hit his chin, sprayed across his lips, into his mouth, open in a silent, ecstatic scream.

All the while, Cordelia never relented. Seeing him come only made her move faster. She threw his legs over her shoulders, laced their hands together, and fucked him into the mattress in a primal frenzy. Frank felt like he’d never stop coming. He was moments from swooning into a dead faint, and perhaps he’d never return to normal. Maybe he’d be stuck like this, stupid and capable of nothing but trembling orgasms.

‘I didn’t –‘ he cut himself off with a long moan.

‘Yes?’ Cordelia panted. Her voice was gravelly, intoxicating. ‘Speak.’

‘Didn’t know it could feel – like this.’ A pause to ride out an aftershock, listening to Cordelia’s breathing and the bedframe banging against the wall. ‘Do women – is it always like this for women?’

She slowed her movements to look him in the eyes, gyrating her hips, still burrowed inside. ‘Will you concede to female greatness?’

A well-placed thrust had Frank shakily sighing, throwing his head back as Cordelia picked up the pace. ‘I’ve no idea how you get anything done.’

‘Is that what you’d do? Live in bed frigging yourself raw?’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ he breathed. ‘yes. I’ll never wear clothes. I’ll live to be fucked. I’ll –‘

His voice cracked into nothing, because between forceful thrusts, Cordelia’s hand shot forward and tore the scoop neck of his dress down to expose his flat chest, so she could clamp a thumb on forefinger on each rosy nipple and _tug_ –

Shock was on all of Frank’s features. No mettle came from his cock, but he felt the unmistakable blast of a second orgasm burn through every nerve, starting in his arse, spreading everywhere. No. This was too much. If he could come more than once, not even have to wait for his dick to recover, then he may as well abandon all hope. He would never stop. He _could_ never stop!

Tears rolled down his cheeks. For her part, Cordelia mashed her clit against her side of the double-ended dildo, revelling in the mixture of ecstasy and confusion and unbridled shock in Frank’s watery eyes. She kissed his face, tasted salt.

And she came.

A heavy daze covered them both. Cordelia withdrew carefully, soothing Frank even as he tried to tighten his trembling legs around her, to keep her inside. Droplets of female arousal clung to her bush. She reached inside the front panel of her breeches to undo the straps keeping the phallus in place, pulled the device out of herself, and set it aside to better focus on Frank. He was panting, weeping – the tears of shock seemed to have taken a mournful turn, perhaps from overstimulation, a complete overload.

Cordelia embraced him, positioned him so she could stroke and kiss his face, his hair, whisper reassurance and affection. Soon, he settled against her loosely bound chest, listening to her heart. It didn’t take long for sleep to overtake him, still enveloped in layers of feminine fabrics. Cordelia sighed, satisfied. She kicked off her shining shoes, and settled in for the night.

The Dunsmores and their guests arrived the following afternoon.

Though he was glad they’d made it back unharmed – and particularly happy servants would once again tend to his comfort – dread crept into Frank’s mind. Sitting in the drawing room beside his parents, watching Ambrose’s Navy companions act out absurd charades, he wondered if the past week would fade into a dream. Now Ambrose was back, was his bond with Cordelia severed for good? He didn’t know what he would do if he’d been offered this exhilarating drug, only to have it snatched away once he’d become addicted.

He hadn’t chanced to look directly at the couple since Ambrose’s return, scared he’d only find rejection, perhaps even anger, no matter what Cordelia had said about their _arrangement_. But he knew he couldn’t avoid them indefinitely, and, mustering his courage, he peered over… just as Cordelia stole a glance at him. Far from ignoring him or casting a cynical gaze, she smiled, raised her eyes to the ceiling to indicate the floor above, and rose with a tired sigh.

‘I am terribly sorry to leave you, but I’m afraid the emotion of your return has rather fatigued me.’

‘Ah, even the formidable Cordelia is vulnerable to the weaknesses of her sex!’ chortled Lord Dunsmore.

‘We are all of us slaves to biology,’ she said, beatific. ‘Don’t be too terribly late, will you, my dear?’

‘I won’t make promises I can’t keep,’ Ambrose laughed.

Frank waited ten, twenty minutes after she had gone, made some excuse about a book he was keen on finishing, and made to leave. On the way, he met his cousin’s eyes. Ambrose raised his glass of brandy in a tiny, private toast, and grinned widely. Frank smiled back.

That evening, with the family downstairs, Cordelia fucked him over the dressing table, so Frank could look in the mirror and watch himself unravel.

The rest of their time together was a study in contrasts.

Under the watchful eyes of others, they kept up a running exchange of snippy comments, good-naturedly mediated by Ambrose. Frank’s parents were pleased to see their frosty relationship thaw – where previously, Frank would have lashed out at or ignored his relation, he seemed to handle things with more maturity now. Perhaps having to provide for himself and Cordelia had done him some good!

If they’d known this armistice was motivated by unmitigated lust and emancipated self-discovery, they might have been a touch less enthused.

As soon as Frank and Cordelia were left to their own devices, she wasted no time, and appeared to want to consecrate all of the land surrounding Cecily with unholy waters.

She whipped his back to scarlet welts in one of the stables’ empty stalls. She took him from behind outside the kennel, out of sight of the manor. She accompanied him on a ride into the woods once the snow abated, and allowed him the rare privilege of sitting on his face in the middle of a clearing – the first time she allowed him to see, let alone _touch_ her sex (for, despite all his enthusiasm, he was a novice, and had yet to earn even sporadic access to it).

As the clock struck twelve to welcome the New Year, she touched his glass with her own. There was a devilish glint in her eye, suppressed agony in his – caused by the peeled finger of ginger tightly clenched inside his hole.

Their night-time activities continued without interference – until, near the end of their stay, Ambrose returned from the drawing room earlier than expected. Perhaps Frank and Cordelia had dragged things out too long. Either way, he cracked open the door to find Frank playing the faithful pup, wearing nothing but a collar and a bewildered expression.

Frank tried to stand, to speak, and Ambrose tried to go, but Cordelia put a stop to both with a raised hand and a loud shush.

‘We’ve been handed the ideal opportunity to mend your absurd row,’ she said.

She beckoned Ambrose to heel with a single confident gesture. When he sat by her feet, beside Frank, she thoughtfully regarded her pets.

‘What better way than to grind you both down to equal size?’

Frank blinked, eyes fixed on Cordelia. She wanted him to watch her, he knew, but he was painfully aware of Ambrose’s presence beside him, of that damned smell of tobacco and that powerful physique and the undeniable effect that athletic body had had on Frank since school. No matter how mortified he felt, his cock didn’t wilt in the slightest.

‘Ambrose,’ Cordelia murmured, ‘I am not a daffy old spinster. My dogs do not wear clothes.’

Frank inhaled sharply. And waited.

He heard Ambrose stand. The rustling of fabric. Heavy breathing.

‘You told me you boys used to wrestle.’

She sank down into a crouch, placed one hand on the back of both men’s heads, and forced them to look at each other. Ambrose was nude, his clothes discarded in a pile. He wasn’t quite as thickly built as Victor, but he’d evidently kept up a brisk exercise regimen. He was just as astounded as Frank and, more to the point, growing just as erect.

‘Show me.’

And she brought their faces together for a thrilling, messy kiss, which grew to a fever pitch with the intensity reserved for forbidden attractions long held dormant. The feeling of another man’s naked chest against his own was divine. The feeling when their stiff pricks met for a drooling kiss of their own, indescribable.

That night, Frank put into practice the oral theory he’d learned with Cordelia’s synthetic prick, experienced the astonishment of being impaled from both ends at once, and, for the second time this season, fell asleep in a bed that wasn’t his own – this time, tightly entangled in a three-way embrace.

The following morning, Frank was roused by a short, polite knock on the door. He might have shrugged it off and slumbered once more if Ambrose, half-asleep, hadn’t called out:

‘Come in!’

Frank shot up – to get dressed, to hide, to do anything – and only succeeded in being the one person in the bed who made direct eye contact with a flummoxed Victor.

‘Oh, good Christ!’ he yelped, instantly closing the door to a sliver. ‘I, er, Lord FitzRoy, your horse is – I’m – I’ll wait in the stables, sir!’

He slammed the door shut, and Frank heard him race down the corridor outside. For a second, nothing happened. It was as though his mind simply refused to process the preceding ten seconds. He glanced at Cordelia, and saw she was awake, mid-yawn, raising her eyebrows at him.

‘Ambrose!’ Frank growled. ‘Wake up, you fool!’

A swift slap to the cheek had him alert at once. The advantages of a military career, Frank supposed.

‘What? What’s the matter?’ Ambrose said, looking around wildly, perhaps awaiting an assault led by the last floundering pirates of the Mediterranean. Once Frank explained, in quick and blunt terms, what had just occurred, he laughed. ‘Oh, yes! I meant to ride this morning. That’s why I returned early last night.’

He hopped out of bed and went to collect his riding gear. Even full up with fury, Frank couldn’t help admiring the Captain’s broad back, those muscles so much more defined than his own. ‘You’re still going?’

‘Naturally! I won’t have the chance to ride once we’re back in London. Not anywhere I’d _want_ to.’ Ambrose gave himself a cursory wash from the jug and basin near the fire, and threw together a passable riding outfit. Along with a brain the size of a lentil and a senseless swagger, another infuriating characteristic of his was the ability to look like a perfect gentleman in any clothing he chose. ‘I’ll have a word with the lad. He’ll let it go.’

‘You’re very certain.’

‘Well, what’s he to do? Put himself out of a job?’ Another obnoxious laugh. ‘He’s a good man, Frankie, don’t you worry.’ He tipped his hat towards the bed. ‘As they say in Italy, adios, you two!’

‘They do not say that in Italy,’ Frank said, as Ambrose shut the door.

‘Have some faith in him, Frank,’ said Cordelia. ‘He’s talked his way out of far more precarious situations than this. If he could sidestep the lash after being caught _in flagrante delicto_ –‘

‘As they say in Spain.’

‘— with his lieutenant in the HMS Aphrodite, he can wriggle out of this. Besides, Victor’s sensible. And I suspect he may sympathise more than you might suppose.’

‘Do you reckon?’ Frank said, a little too quickly. ‘I mean – perhaps, yes. One never knows.’

‘One does not.’ Cordelia stretched. ‘All the same, if Cecily is coming to life, you probably ought to return to your rooms.’

With a sigh, Frank left the bed and put on yesterday’s clothes. Dressing always felt slightly strange after a long time in the nude. Even with the cold, he far preferred to wear nothing and lounge at Cordelia’s side.

He paused, midway through putting on his stockings.

‘You’re leaving in just two days,’ he murmured.

‘Yes.’

Nodding, Frank finished tying his garters, tried to summon a casual follow-up or a pleasant enough new topic. Instead, he rushed to Cordelia as she swung her legs out of bed and tightly hugged her ankles, head against her shins. She watched him, silent.

‘I know you must go. I shan’t ask anything preposterous. But I…’ A lump formed in his throat. He forced himself to speak through it. ‘I love being yours. I… I love...’

‘You love me?’

Frank nodded. ‘Yes.’

He felt Cordelia’s fingers stroke his unruly locks, luxuriated in her nails gently scratching his scalp.

‘We disagree on many things, Frank, though I hope I’ve planted a few seeds over the past month. Still, I hold you in great affection. I’ve no doubt you feel the same about me. But speaking of love after so little time?’

‘Did you not grow to love Ambrose in about as long?’ Frank exclaimed, face snapping up to look at her beautiful, patient face. ‘We’ve more than merely _courted_. People marry knowing far less than we do about each other.’

‘Is that a fact? What do you know about me?’

Frank opened his mouth at once – and found that nothing came out. He could guess at Cordelia’s interests with reasonable accuracy. He could predict what she’d say in response to most subjects. He would probably be able to purchase a gift she’d genuinely find quite delightful.

But he knew no more than anyone else who’d been living at Cecily over the season.

Well. There was one thing.

Frank lowered his gaze.

‘I know your face when you come,’ he said.

He was startled when Cordelia laughed above him, unwound his arms from around her legs to pull him up so she could better look at him. They’d been in very much the same position just recently, when, as a dog, he had his paws up on her thighs to receive her praise.

‘You’re right! That _is_ a rarer sight. Though plenty of people who do not love me could boast the same.’ She kissed the top of his head, remained in the same position to speak softly in his ear. ‘Don’t hand your heart to the first person to understand you and give you satisfaction, Frank. That way, madness lies.’

Straightening out her spine, she guided Frank to lay his cheek on her naked thighs, and continued to play with his hair as he breathed in her scent.

‘You shall always be welcome at our home. In fact, come in February. Ambrose and I will introduce you to a very _interesting_ social set, and about two weeks into the month, he will be sailing off on diplomatic duties, and I shall have you all to myself.’

Despite the roiling in his heart, Frank smiled against her skin, enjoyed the tingle between his legs at the prospect. This reminder of his recently blossomed sexuality made him realise just how close he was to her quim. He rested his chin in the sunken line where her thighs met, and pressed his nose against the curly hairs peeking out from between her legs to breathe in the heady smell of her sex.

Cordelia’s fist closed in his locks, tugged painfully to force him to meet her eyes.

‘You’re in heat even when I try to be sentimental? More fool me for expecting emotional depth from a strumpet like you.’

This was said affectionately, though she pulled hard on Frank’s hair to make him whimper and stutter an apology.

‘I don’t know that I can believe you.’

She parted her thighs, holding him firmly in place while she revealed her vulva, gleaming with greed. That tantalising scent of her was stronger now. Frank let out a shuddering, hot breath that tickled the sensitive lips of her perfect muff.

‘If you’re certain you know what I look like when I come, summon that face now.’

And she thrust his mouth upon her cunt.

Frank made up for his inexperience with enthusiasm, kissing this mouth as passionately as he did the one on her face. Cordelia almost never let him satisfy her this directly, but in the month they’d spent together, he’d started to learn to read the subtle twitches and noises, and knew when it was time to stop suckling on her lips to fuck her with his tongue, to switch from there to worship the pink pearl atop her slit.

Something must have worked, because her thighs shuddered and held fast onto his head, and she pushed his head harder between her legs. She slid off the side of the bed, forcing him to lie down, so she could more easily drive her stiff little clit against his lips and tongue, thrusting just as roughly as she did whenever she penetrated his eager hole. Beneath her, Frank simply stayed still and let her fuck his mouth, nose shoved tightly against her mound. Every sense was flooded with Cordelia. The taste and smell of her amazing cunt, the sight of her impeccable body writhing above, the feeling of her flawless skin and weight holding him down, the sound of her quickening breath – and when she came, the quiet, sighing moan of completion.

Frank knew he’d happily die in this position.

A few days later, standing high up on the staircase watching guests bid goodbye to his parents and staff, he could still transport himself to that moment, if he focused.

Turning from Lord Dunsmore, Ambrose spotted him lurking in the shadows and waved with this John Bull hat.

‘Frankie!’ he shouted. ‘You look like an owl up there! Come say goodbye to Cordelia!’

With a bemused sense of déjà vu and sharpness in his chest, Frank came down and set about bidding adieu to the lesser members of Ambrose’s retinue. Perhaps, if he found enough hands to shake, he could put off the fated farewell indefinitely.

Inevitably, though, there was no one else left.

Frank and Cordelia gazed at each other for long, long seconds, as the rest of Cecily seemed to fade away. She smiled, held out her hand. Frank grasped it. Her grip was firm, like a man’s, as he knew it would be.

‘We look forward to having you,’ she said. ‘Dress your best.’

Frank nodded, holding on as long as he could. There was a delicious thrill in knowing that, underneath his trousers, he wore the pair of lacy silk stockings Cordelia had gifted him as a memento, with elaborate embroidered flowers unbefitting of a respectable gentleman, held up with satin ribbon.

A final squeeze. And she slipped her slim hand out of his.

Frank watched the caravan of coaches until they were totally out of sight, gazing out into the winter landscape with such intensity his eyes began to burn from the wind.

‘You’ll catch a chill, Mr Dunsmore.’

Victor stood nearby, looking at his feet. The others had returned to work or pleasure, and the men found themselves alone in the foyer. They hadn’t exchanged a word since that discomfiting morning, but Frank knew he couldn’t avoid his stablehand forever.

‘Quite right,’ he said.

He cast a final longing glance at the mess of tracks and hoof prints leading off past the horizon, and shut the doors. Both stood, waiting for the other to act first. Frank cleared his throat and wandered over.

‘I, er, understand Ambrose had a word.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He checked his surroundings for eavesdroppers, and lowered his voice. ‘I won’t tell no one, Mr Dunsmore, I swear. I – I know what it’s like t-to have a secret such as that.’

Victor kept his eyes firmly on his shoes. Could it have been the first time he’d ever hinted at peculiar feelings? Frank found it difficult to settle his own gaze on anything. Combined, the heat of their flushed faces could have powered one of Stephenson’s acclaimed steam engines.

‘I… see. I am glad to hear it.’

‘Yes, sir.’ He paused. ‘Anyhow, Mr Dunsmore, I have acquaintances work in stately homes all around the county, tell stories you wouldn’t believe. You’ve nothing to fear ‘bout your interests, considering.’

‘You servants share your masters’ personal lives like salacious criminal broadsheets?’

This forced Victor to look at his face, with the wide eyes of a man caught out. He took his hands from where he had them clasped behind his back and started fidgeting with his fingers. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and Frank was drawn to the dark hair covering those muscular forearms, the way his waistcoat had tightened over his months at Cecily, as he grew stronger. That brawn could doubtless cause damage, if he wanted it to. Frank’s gaze sank lower, to the generous bulge in Victor’s breeches, big enough to draw the eye even relaxed.

A tackle like that could cause some damage, too.

Would Frank’s ego ever recover, if he were made the bitch of a working man?

‘I – I didn’t mean it like that, Mr Dunsmore,’ Victor stammered. ‘I only meant –‘

‘Did, er,’ Frank cut in, loudly. ‘Did the girls put up the mistletoe, this year? I didn’t see any when I helped you downstairs.’

This threw Victor off for a second time. ‘Oh, they – perhaps in their wing, sir. What with the guests and the storm, they may’ve forgotten to hang it elsewhere.’

‘Is there any in reserve?’

‘I imagine so, Mr Dunsmore. Jenny’s brother works with a mistletoe seller. He always gives her plenty.’

‘I see.’ He cleared his throat again. How did Cordelia make it seem so simple? ‘If, er, if you may cut a sprig or two, might we, er… stop by the stables and hang some up?’

‘I don’t reckon many ladies will be visiting the stables with Lady FitzRoy gone, sir.’

‘No, and I don’t suppose father will be keen, either, with his rheumatism. It shall just be you and I ‘til spring.’

Frank had made a valiant effort to keep his eyes in Victor’s general direction, but he felt faintly dizzy from nerves and shame, and directed his attention to the floorboards and his well-shined boots. Victor said nothing, though if he’d spoken, it would have been drowned out by the roar of Frank’s heart in his head.

Victor’s feet moved out of Frank’s field of vision, towards the servants’ quarters.

‘I – I don’t reckon she’ll notice if s-some’s gone, let alone mind,’ said Victor. ‘You ought to put on your coat, sir. Won’t be a minute.’

His footfalls hurried to the stairs. Frank’s heart was like a hummingbird. Anticipating what was to come, he went to his own rooms to find his coat and the container of cream Cordelia had left him.

Perhaps he’d have a few tales to tell by the time he ventured to London.


End file.
